THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  DRAMA 

A  QUARTERLY   REVIEW  OF  DRAMATIC  LITERATURE 


Editors 
WILLIAM  NORMAN  GUTHRIE  CHARLES  HUBBARD  SERGEL 


No.  4  NOVEMBER  1911 


CONTENTS 

Page 
EMILE  AUGIEE,  by  William  Norman  GuiJirie 3 

GIBOYER'S  SON  (complete),  a  Comedy  in  Five  Acts,  by  Emile 
lAugier,  translated  by  Benedict  Papot 27 

STEELE  MACKAYE,  Dynamic  Artist  of  the  American  Theatre; 

an  Outline  of  his  Life  Work,  by  Percy  MacKaye 138 

THE  CASE  OF  AMERICAN  DRAMA,  by  Thomas  H.  Dickinson.   162 

GOLDONI'S  VENETIAN  NATURALISM,  by  E.  C.  Chatfield- 

Taylor    178 

"THE  SCARECROW,"  A  Discussion  of  its  Performance,  by 

Stephen  Austin  216 

PROGRESS  OF  THE  DRAMA  LEAGUE 223 

NOTES  ON  THE  DRAMA  IN  BERLIN,  1910,  1911,  by  B.  P. . .   228 
A  PLEA  FOR  EXPERIMENTS,  by  G.  C.  Ashton  Jonson 236 

STUDIES  OF  THE   EIGHTEENTH    CENTURY   IN  ITALY, 

Reviewed  by  S.  F.  A. 242 


Z5c  Published  by  ,3  OQ 


A  Number 


The  Dramatic  Publishing  Company 
Pontiac  Bldg.,  Chicago 


Copyright,  1911,  by  The  Dramatic  Publishing  Company. 

Entered    as    second-class   matter    February    25,    1911,    at    the   postoffice    at 
Chicago,   Illinois,   under  the   Act  of  March  3,   1879. 


THE  DRAMA 


A  Quarterly  Review  of  Dramatic  Literature 


No.  4 


November 


1911 


EMILE  AUGIER. 
I. 

IROFESSOR  Brander  Matthews,  in 
"The  French  Dramatists  of  the  Nine- 
teenth Century, ' '  wrote  what  we  cannot 
but  believe  to  be  his  most  delightful  and 
serviceable  book.  Dipping  into  it  from 
time  to  time  since  the  first  careful  read- 
ing, I  for  one  have  never  found  myself  disappointed ; 
so  that  in  furnishing  here  a  few  suggestions  for  the 
study  of  Emile  Augier  (1820-1889),  by  way  of  intro- 
ducing the  following  efforts  at  translation  of  one  of 
his  masterpieces,  nothing  better  could  probably  be 
done  for  the  average  reader  than  to  remind  him  of 
the  fifth  chapter  of  the  above  mentioned  book,  which, 
while  less  epigrammatic  and  brilliant  than  its  fel- 
lows on  Victor  Hugo  and  Alexandre  Dumas  fils  re- 
spectively, appears  to  be  written  con  amore  and  has 
about  it  something  of  an  indescribable  persuasive- 
ness, due  perhaps  to  the  very  sobriety  of  its  enthu- 
siasm. 

There  is  something  about  Emile  Augier  that  espe- 
cially attracts  the  Anglo-Saxon,  who  somehow  is 

3 


£2 

OS 


741688 


4  EMILE  AUGIER 

wont  to  form  his  conception  of  the  Frenchman  in 
spite  of  all  his  better  knowledge  as  a  composite  pho- 
tograph of  the  dancing  master,  the  chef,  and  the 
unmentionable  novel.  That  the  gamut  of  French 
thought  and  feeling  runs  from  Rabelais  to  Calvin  is 
something  that  he  is  most  likely  and  willing  to  for- 
get. All  seriousness,  in  his  opinion,  left  France  with 
the  Huguenots,  who  brought  the  cloth  industry  to 
England  and  a  sort  of  "Poor  Richard  philosophy'* 
to  South  Carolina.  But  thrift,  domestic  virtue  and 
philosophical  seriousness  were  not  altogether  drained 
from  France  by  that  unfortunate  blood  letting.  In 
our  own  days  Beaudelaire  and  Verlaine  on  the  one 
hand,  LeConte  de  Lisle  and  Sully  Prudhomme  on  the 
other  hand,  point  to  the  same  contrast,  only  one  term 
of  which  is  supposed  by  the  self-righteous  Anglo- 
Saxon  to  be  Frenchy  and  French.  Now  Emile  Au- 
gier  belongs  to  the  serious  wing  of  the  French  eagle 
— for  at  the  time  of  his  flourishing  the  eagle  of  impe- 
rial glory  was  still  beating  her  wings,  if  for  the  sec- 
ond time,  and  Anglo-Saxons  recognize  in  him  a  long 
lost  brother,  and  fancy  he  must  be  also  descended  on 
a  collateral  line  from  the  Lost  Ten  Tribes!  To  be 
sure,  there  cling  to  him  some  "Frenchy"  habits,  the 
inevitable  consequence  of  unfortunate  early  associa- 
tions; but  how  he  does  cherish  the  home,  personal 
integrity  and  probity,  feminine  virtue  and  all  the 
other  celestial  glories  that  invariably  adorn  the  mid- 
dle class  heaven!  Were  it  only  that  Emile  Augier 
justified  himself  immediately  to  Anglo-Saxon  eyes, 
as  an  apologete  for  bourgeois  excellence,  we  should 
not  think  it  worth  our  while  to  print  any  of  his  plays 
in  translation ;  but  the  truth  is  that  the  work  of  this 
sterling  patriot,  honest  and  honorable  man,  is  note- 
worthy from  more  than  one  point  of  view.  First, 
he  has  his  place  in  the  development  of  European 


EM1LE  AUGIER  5 

Drama  as  a  forerunner  of  Ibsen,  Strindberg,  Haupt- 
mann  and  the  rest  of  the  moderns.  Secondly,  he 
endeavored  to  produce  a  most  difficult  kind  of  drama, 
the  satiric  drama,  in  which  his  only  successful  com- 
peers are  Ben  Jonson  and  the  younger  Ibsen  in  his 
verse  plays.  Finally,  as  having  to  all  intents  and 
purposes  put  sociology  on  the  stage  for  the  first  time, 
Augier  inte'restslfls  as  exhibitingjhe  special  vices  of 
a  democratic^  ^pciety  and  of  a  democratic  govern- 
ment, so  that  all  the  while  as  one  reads  his  best 
work,  one  wonders  if  he  could  have  written,  without 
a  special  eye  to  American  affairs  during  the  last  ten 
years.  The  regime  of  graft  and  the  accepted  sneer 
of  the  "low-brow"  at  the  " high-brow"  that  runs 
unctuously  from  soul  to  soul,  absolving  us  from  all 
pecuniarily  unprofitable  intellectual  endeavor  or 
moral  worth;  the  subsidized  or  rather  purchased 
press;  the  representative  of  the  people  directly  or 
indirectly  in  the  pay  of  private  interests ;  these  fla- 
grant vices  of  the  sixties  in  France  are  not  wholly 
unfamiliar  to  us,  although  our  types  of  them  may 
harbor  certain  wholesome  vulgarities  about  them 
which  indicate  that  they  are  not  a  final  state  of  the 
body  politic  and  the  social  order,  and  will  yield  to 
mild  treatment  like  the  measles.  Ours,  at  least  we 
flatter  ourselves,  is  no  cancer  needing  the  surgical 
treatment  of  a  Franco-Prussian  War ;  and  our  man 
on  horseback  will  be  content  with  a  grape-vine  swing 
in  the  South,  with  skeeing  in  the  Northwest,  and 
hunting  for  the  National  Zoo.  Altogether  we  are  a 
fortunate  people  whose  acutest  symptoms  of  disease 
turn  out  upon  careful  diagnosis  to  be  nothing  more 
than  growing  pains  or  colic.  Hence  it  is  that  the 
American  will  enjoy  the  "  Augier  exhibit"  of  French 
Decadence,  social  and  political;  the  qualm  of  con- 
science will  be  invariably  succeeded  by  the  abdominal 


6  EMILE  AUGIER 

chuckle,  which  proverbially  helps  digestion.  Who 
then  should  feel  any  compunction  at  the  solid,  sober 
and  dignified  and  often  lofty  work  of  Emile  Augier? 
A  Hebrew  Prophet,  domesticated  in  Paris,  and  ful- 
minating with  academic  good  taste  against  the  sins 
which  our  neighbors  are  committing — unfeloniously, 
however,  in  this  pardonable  period  of  transition?  A 
pinch  of  "graft,"  a  grain  of  canniness,  a  suspicion 
of  "buncum," — what  be  these  dissolved  in  the  sav- 
ory economic  sauce  so  liberally  poured  over  our 
American  dish  of  prosperity?  Vive  la  France!  and 
Emile  Augier  (being  well  dead),  and  our  own  private 
and  public  Plutosnobocracy ! 

II. 

The  place  of  Emile  Augier  in  the  development  of 
the  modern  French  Drama  may  be  variously  as- 
signed, if  it  be  a  matter  to  be  decided  solely  by 
chronological  priority,  for  the  careers  of  Scribe,  Sar- 
dou,  Dumas  fits,  and  Augier  overlap.  We  shall  at- 
tempt onlylTsketch  of  tHeTogical  order.  The  reader 
must  remember  that  there  were,  at  least,  two  Au- 
giers,  and  two  Dumas  fils,  so  that  each  might  be 
claimed  as  the  predecessor  of  the  other, — according 
to  the  point  of  view  taken  toward  their  respective 
works.  In  1827  there  took  place  in  Paris  a  brilliant 
series  of  Shaksperian  performances  by  the  best 
known  actors  of  the  English  stage.  Whether  this 
brilliant  series  of  performances  was  a  symptom  or 
a  cause,  or  both,  we  will  not  stop  to  discuss ;  suffice 
it  to  record  the  fact.  In  1829  appeared  the  aesthet- 
ically revolutionary  "Henri  III"  of  the  elder  Dumas, 
and  in  1830  the  "Hernani"  of  Victor  Hugo.  With 
these  two  works  began  the  career  of  the  Bomantic 
Drama.  Since  the  "Cid"  of  Corneille  there  had  not 


EMILE  AUGIER  7 

been  so  popular  a  success  in  the  region  of  stage 
poetry,  and  the  ferocious  hostility  which  "Hernani" 
elicited  was  not  merely  a  proof  of  its  power,  but  also 
of  the  fact  that  the  times  were  ripe  for  the  appear- 
ance of  the  revolutionary  spirit  on  the  French  stage, 
forty  years  after  the  political  outburst.  So  con- 
servative was  and  is  the  theatre  of  France ! 

Now,  the  cost  of  the  hampering  unities  should 
never  be  mentioned  without  also  alluding  to  the  net 
gain.  The  narrow  limits  set  to  the  action  of  the 
French  play  resulted  in  an  arbitrary,  sometimes 
cruel — but  also,  at  least  with  masterpieces — a  benefi- 
cent and  almost  miraculous  simplification.  For  suc- 
cess the  master  needed  far  greater  expertness.  The 
conventions  being  obtrusive  had  to  be  subtler  for  tol- 
eration. The  dramatist  became  indeed  a  theatrical 
prestidigitator,  while  remaining  all  the  time  a  poet, 
and  his  audience  was  slowly  trained  to  a  full  appre- 
ciation of  the  difficulties  surmounted  or  evaded  by 
the  playwright's  skill.  The  revolution  in  Romantic 
Drama  was  wrought  in  the  name  of  artistic  liberty 
and  Shakspere  as  its  hero ;  witness  Hugo 's  magnilo- 
quent and  bellicose  introduction  to  "Cromwell." 
One  cannot  but  suspect,  however,  that  the  object  was 
not  liberty,  but  a  variety  of  interest;  and  hitherto 
excluded  theatrical  effects  doubtless  derived  from 
popular  melodrama, — in  the  case  of  Hugo,  under 
the  cloak  of  the  grand  style. 

For  in  the  series  of  plays  of  the  elder  Dumas 
(1803-1870)  we  notice  especially  high-wrought  pas- 
sion, intrigue,  breathless  haste,  and  extreme  situa- 
tions; in  the  far  more  important  series  of  Hugo's 
plays,  running  through  the  thirties  and  early  forties, 
we  notice  again  passion,  eloquence,  verse  splendors 
in  descriptive  and  narrative  digressions,  and  spec- 
tacular solutions  of  dramatic  problems, — the  coup 


8  EMILE  AUGIER 

'de  theatre  uncannily  superimposed  upon  the  purple 
patch!  But  for  all  the  exotic  interest  and  the  lack 
of  emotional  restraint,  we  cannot  but  notice  that  the 
French  habit,  originally  induced  doubtless  because 
of  the  pitiless  three  unities,  continues  undisturbed; 
namely,  the  display  of  a  preconceived  character 
rather  than  the  development  of  a  progressively  self- 
conceiving  character;  character  as  a  definite  datum, 
a  precipitation,  a  residuum,  a  death  mask,  not  char- 
acter as  a  problem,  a  psychological  experiment,  a 
vital  surprise,  an  individual  achievement.  The 
French  Drama  gave  the  cross  section,  the  English 
Drama  at  its  best  a  long  section  of  some  piece  of  life ; 
and  the  French  manner  had  doubtless  its  justifica- 
tions in  after-thought,  but  its  crying  necessity  is  to 
be  found  in  the  three  unities.  Now,  the  continuance 
of  the  French  manner,  in  itself  so  much  less  vitally 
interesting,  after  the  repeal  of  the  said  unities,  was 
doubtless  a  matter  of  classic  momentum.  The  result, 
at  all  events,  of  the  Eomantic  revolution  was  a  re- 
vival of  literary  interest  with  exotic  material;  and 
while  forfeiting  the  close  psychology  of  Racine  and 
Holier e,  losing  the  faithful  contact  with  the  rational 
and  the  abiding  in  human  nature,  it  gratified  liber- 
ally the  natural  appetite  for  sensation. 

The  Eomantic  Drama  was  not  Shaksperian  then  in 
essence.  The  product  of  the  movement  is  as  like 
Shakspere 's  work  as  Voltaire's,  and  Hugo's  views 
of  Shakspere  resemble  the  true  Shakspere.  There 
must  come  the  inevitable  reaction  to  sanity.  Eugene 
Scribe  (1791-1861)  presenting  commonplace  human 
nature  conventionalized;  master  of  intrigue,  weav- 
ing his  threads  in  and  out  in  an  obvious  pattern; 
passing  from  situation  to  situation  as  though  telling 
the  beads  of  his  rosary,  tied  together  by  the  one 
thread  of — the  pious  desire  to  please!  Victorien 


EMILE  AUGIER  9 

Sardou  (1831-1908),  the  master  of  carpentry  and 
tinsel,  lord  of  the  setting,  whose  muse  was  the  scin- 
tillating and  exquisitely  disposed  tableau  vivant. 
Note,  for  instance,  what  in  his  hands  becomes  of 
Shakspere's  "Antony  and  Cleopatra,"  and  sneer  if 
you  choose ;  yet  you  will  have  to  admit  that  the  prop- 
erty man  at  length  has  come  into  his  own,  and  wears 
his  peculiar  halo,  to  which  he  doubtless  has  his  ex- 
cellent democratic  right  (much  to  the  financial  profit, 
however,  be  it  observed,  of  the  playwright).  Alex- 
andre  Dumas  fils  (1824-1895),  was  the  great  discov- 
erer for  all  Europe  of  the  modern  individual  upon 
the  stage.  Beginning  with  "La  Dame  aux  Game- 
lias"  and  ending  with  "M.  Alphonse"  ('73),  his  lit- 
erally splendid  series  of  stage  homilies  were  deliv- 
ered, sometimes  over-sentimental,  sometimes  acri- 
monious, sometimes  preposterously  logical,  but 
always  interesting,  always  striving  after  truth  of 
portraiture  and  truth  of  doctrine,  over-emphasizing 
the  generally  slurred  elements,  sometimes  marring 
his  work  altogether  by  the  desire  to  give  prominence 
to  what  is  usually  unmentioned  because  of  a  middle 
class  taboo,  nevertheless  with  all  his  faults  and  short- 
comings Alexandre  Dumas  fils  did  demonstrate  the 
value  of  putting  upon  the  stage  real  men  and  women 
who,  while  intelligible  as  types,  could  be  convincing 
as  individuals.  So  far  we  may  summarize  what  has 
been  said  of  the  Modern  French  Drama  in  the  four 
words:  passion,  situation,  tableaux,  and  problems; 
or  eloquence,  ingenuity,  sumptuousness,  and  person- 
ality. 

Now,  what  was  the  specific  contribution  of  Emile 
Augier  (1820-89)?  Briefly  put,  after  considerable 
hesitation,  the  prophet  in  Augier  awoke  and  exhib- 
ited in  his  works  social  problems  through  more  or 
less  sketchily  realized  persons  (sometimes  quite 


10 


EMILE  AUGIER 


human,  sometimes  conventional  and  merely  typical, 
sometimes  both  for  awhile,  occasionally  both 
throughout).  His  movement  is  hesitating  from  per- 
sonage to  personage,  from  the  lesser  comedy  of  man- 
ners towards  the  dramatic  satire  in  the  grand  style. 

CHRONOLOGY  OF  AUGIER 'S  PLAYS: 

1844.     La  Cigiie.     (Little  classical  comedy). 
*1845.    Un  Homme  de  Bien.     (Glorification  of  the  hus- 
band and  the  home). 
1848.     L'Aventuriere.     (Defense  of  the  home  against  the 

moral  "free  lance"). 
*1849.     Gabrielle.     (The  Home  again). 
1850.    Le  joueur  de  Flute. 

1852.  Diane. 

1853.  La  Pierre  de  Touche. 
1853.     Philiberte. 

*1855.     Le  Mariage  d'Olympe.     (Defense  of  the  Home). 
**  Le  Gendre  de  M.  Poirier.     (Relations  of  pedigree    --V" 

and  industrial  fortune). 
Ceinture  Doree. 

1858.  La  jeunesse. 

***1858.     Les  Lionnes  Pauvres.     (Containing  Seraphine). 

1859.  Un  Beau  Mariage. 

***1861.    Les    Effrontes.       (Containing    Vermouillet    and 

Giboyer). 
***1862.     Le  fils  de  Giboyer. 

1864.     Le  Maitre  Guerin.     (The  Country  Lawyer). 
***1866.     La  Contagion. 

**1868.     Paul  Forestier.     (The  Artist). 
***1869.     Lions  et  Eenards.    ( Containing  D'Estrigaud). 

Le  Postscriptum. 
1873.    Jean  de  Thommeray. 

*1876.     Madamoiselle  Caverlet.    (The  question  of  divorce). 
*1878.     Le  Fourchambault. 

III. 

The  problem  of  the  satiric  drama  in  which  Augier 
more  especially  distinguished  himself  constitutes  an 
almost  insoluble  aesthetic  problem.  Shakspere's  suc- 


\ 


EMILE  AUG1ER  11 

cess  in  the  form  is  at  least  open  to  question,  e.  g., 
with  the  tragic  end  in  ' '  Timon  of  Athens ; ' '  with  the 
comic  solution  in '  <  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well. ' '  For 
the  drama  requires  sympathy  on  the  part  of  the 
audience  with  its  chief  figures,  whereas  satire  re- 
quire*3  an  Antipathetic  aloofness  from  them.  The 
conflicting  requirements  of  the  form,  then,  and  the 
mood  may  be  compromised  as  follows:  The  play- 
wright may  offer  the  satire  of  the  major  characters, 
preserving  our  sympathy  lowards  the  minor  char- 
acters. The  result  is  likely  to  be  an  ill-constructed 
drama,  with  the  center  of  gravity  out  of  the  base  of 
the  structure;  the  theatrical  interest,  that  is  to  say, 
alien  to  the  figures  most  prominent  in  the  dramatic 
work.  Or  the  playwright  may  instead  elect  to  put 
us  in  affectionate  relations  with  his  chief  figures, 
expending  his  satirical  genius  on  the  minor  charac- 
ters.. The  result  clearly  is  a  drama  with  satirical 
atmosphere  like  Daudet's  "Froment  jeune  et  Bisler 
aine. '  '  An  absolute  success  in  this  genre  would  nec- 
essarily require,  it  would  seem,  an  intermittent  cur- 
rent of  satire,  an  alternation  of  interest,  some  kind 
of  oscillation  from  emotional  pole  to  intellectual  pole. 
Perhaps,  however,  success  in  the  satiric  drama  might 
be  compassed  by  making  the  satirized  chief  person 
relatively  sympathetic  as  compared  to  an  odious  en- 
vironment, the  Nietzschan  distinction  being  sharply 
drawn  between  schleclit,  low,  base,  vile,  and  bose, 
wicked,  bad,  dangerous.  In  this  fashion  Ben  Jonson 
would  seem  to  have  absolutely  solved  the  problem 
of  the  satiric  drama  in  his  "Volpone"  (The  Fox), 
which  displays  the  cynic  self-tricked,  antipathetic  to 
our  moral  sense,  and  yet  relatively  sympathetic  when 
contrasted  with  the  base  knaves  and  fools,  his  para- 
sites and  his  dupes.  In  modern  times  the  satiric 
drama  has  witnessed  Ibsen's  theatrically  doubtful 


12  EMILE  AUGIER 

successes  of  "Peer  Gynt"  (1867)  and  "The  Wild 
Duck"  (1884). 

Now  it  cannot  be  said  that  Emile  Augier  com- 
pletely succeeded  in  compromising  to  our  satisfac- 
tion the  opposing  demands  of  aesthetic  form  and 
poetic  mood;  but  whoever  will  consider  that  great 
series  of  plays,  in  spirit  so  earnest  and  terrible,  in 
matter  often  so  conventional,  will  have  to  admit  that 
the  faults  being  granted,  there  remains  for  the  lover 
of  dramatic  literature  a  great  achievement  in  "Les 
Effrontes,"  "Le  Fils  de  Giboyer,"  and  "La  Con- 
tagion,'* regarded  as  a  trilogy,  which  may  be  ex- 
panded to  a  "pentalogy"  by  the  inclusion  of  "Les 
Lionnes  Pauvres"  as  the  introduction,  and  "Les 
Leons  et  Renards"  as  a  dramatic  epilogue. 

IV. 

Eoughly  speaking,  the  career  of  Emile  Augier  is 
the  record  of  a  bourgeois  moralist's  development 
into  a  national  prophet.  "Un  Homme  de  Bien" 
( '45)  and  "Gabrielle"  ( '49)  give  us  the  pro  and  con 
for  the  bourgeois  ideal.  In  the  first  of  these  two 
we  are  shown  M.  Feline,  the  righteous  man,  dis- 
tinctly self-righteous,  and  never  without  an  excellent 
selfish  motive  for  his  righteousness.  The  pitiless 
exposure  of  the  soi  disant  moral  man's  cant  must 
have  been  wholesome.  Why  is  he  moral?  Clearly 
for  safety's  sake  and  ease.  "The  masque  of  Don  Juan 
does  not  seem  to  fit  and  become  every  brow.  One 
must  have  much  wit  for  that  role,  and  in  fact  it  is 
much  less  arduous  to  play  the  part  of  the  honest 
man."  And  what  is  his  spiritual  reward?  His  is 
the  undoubted  right  to  judge,  and  to  condemn !  ' '  The 
right  to  feel  myself  and  declare  myself  honest ;  and 
I  wager  nobody  will  have  payed  a  higher  price  than  I 


EMILE  AUGIER  13 

for  the  precious  right  of  crying  'stop  thief  at  the 
heels  of  the  rascal. ' '  But  the  right  to  judge  and  con- 
demn is  not  the  only  reward,  for  our  hero  agrees 
with  some  reluctance  that  it  is  a  matter  of  extreme 
pride  to  him,  and  promises  the  ulterior  delight  of 
indulging  at  leisure  in  cheerful  self-admiration. 
Poor  Eose  is  taken  in  by  M.  Feline 's  display  of  good 
nature,  and  by  his  parade  of  magnanimous  senti- 
ment :  ' '  How  could  I  have  despised  this  honest  and 
good  man?"  But  indeed,  it  was  good  for  her  to  be 
deluded;  better  than  to  see  too  clearly  through  his 
disguise. 

The  other  side  of  this  unsympathetic  portraiture 
of  the  bourgeois  was  furnished  us  in  * '  Gabrielle, ' '  in 
which  appeared  the  much  ridiculed  line :  "0  head  of 
the  family,  0  poet,  how  I  love  thee ! ' '  Yet,  laugh  as 
one  may  at  this  extraordinary  lyrical  outburst  torn 
bleeding  from  its  context,  the  fact  remains,  as  Au- 
gier  shows,  that  the  poetry  of  the  home  is  all  the 
poetry  possible  to  the  ordinary  man.  Nor  is  the 
poetry  of  vagabondage  truly  any  commoner.  Steph- 
ane,  who  tries  to  break  up  his  friend  Julien's  home, 
is  not  really  a  better  lover  or  a  more  romantic  per- 
son than  her  husband;  he  only  occupies  the  easier 
role  from  the  point  of  view  of  immediate  theatrical 
.effect.  Julien's  awakening  to  his  unconscious  neglect 
of  his  wife  (absorbed  as  he  had  been  in  making  ma- 
terial provision  for  her)  and  his  insistence  that 
"they  forgive  each  other  all  around" — all  this,  how- 
ever easily  parodied,  does  not  fail  to  make  an  im- 
pression on  the  honest  spectator's  mind  and  heart. 

Augier's  next  preachment  may  be  said  to 
appear  in  "L'Aventuriere"  ('48)  and  "Le  Mariage 
D'Olympe"  ( '55).  Here  he  enlarges  on  the  fact  that 
the  romantic  sympathy  is  accorded  to  the  sinner. 
Somehow  or  other  the  benefit  of  the  doubt  is  not 


14  EMILE  AUGIER 

granted,  as  it  should  be,  to  those  whose  position  is 
regular.  There  is  the  hypocrisy  of  morality;  but 
so  is  there  also  the  hypocrisy  of  rebellion  against 
society.  The  doctrine  is  driven  home,  perhaps 
somewhat  cruelly,  by  Augier.  Though  the  advent- 
uress is  not  incapable  of  repentance,  and  though 
her  repentance  should  be  considered  sincere  until 
proved  otherwise, — nevertheless  she  cannot  be  taken 
back  into  the  bosom  of  outraged  society  as  though 
nothing  had  occurred.  She  must  earn  her  virtue; 
acceptance  must  not  come  to  her  as  a  free  gift,  for 
only  as  an  expensive  purchase  will  she  prize  her 
virtue  at  its  true  worth.  The  trial  as  by  fire  of» 
adversity  is  what  she  needs.  In  an  easy  prosperity 
she  will  but  lapse  again. 

In  "Le  Gendre  de  M.  Poirier"  ('55)  we  are  given 
a  veritable  masterpiece, — Moliere's  "Bourgeois  Gen- 
tilhomme"  brought  down  to  date;  and  the  shafts  of 
wit,  hitting  the  aristocracy  quite  as  often  as  the  bour- 
geoisie. M.  Poirier  himself  is  a  delicious  personage, 
and  should  be  known  and  not  read  about.  His  busi- 
ness sense  identified  with  common  sense,  and  claim- 
ing for  itself  a  kind  of  divine  sanction, — a  sort  of 
mystic  mathematic  afflatus — is  only  equaled  by  his 
profound  contempt  for  art  and  artists.  His  honesty 
is  great,  but  not  as  great  as  his  honest  fear  of  being 
cheated.  No  honest  man  will  allow  a  fellow  man  to 
be  dishonest  at  his  personal  expense!  His  love  of 
abstract  honesty  is  too  great  to  permit  his  own  hon- 
esty to  stand  in  the  way  of  imparting  to  another's 
virtue!  M.  Poirier, — why  not  translate  it  "Pear- 
tree"  while  one  is  at  it — bears  the  delicious  fruit  of 
unselfishness;  but  notice  that  it  is  unselfishness  of 
so  high  an  order  that  it  succeeds  in  being  selfish  also 
at  the  same  time.  For  should  one  not  show  good 
business  tact  in  one's  friendship  and  one's  philan- 


EMILE  AUGIER  15 

thropy,  and  in  the  sacred  ties  and  devotions  of  the 
family?  The  nobility  come  in  for  wholesome  scorn, 
for  their  theory  of  life  is  gilded  idleness,  and  he  for 
one,  M.  Poirier,  will  not  regild  their  idleness  where 
the  base  metal  shows.  Again  and  again  he  repeats 
his  charges  against  the  nobility,  always  to  be  over- 
come by  a  sneaking  sense  of  their  actual  superiority, 
and  speculating  in  secret  as  to  the  money  value  of 
it  all !  Why  not  invest  in  a  pedigree  for  one's  daugh- 
ter, if  the  thing  somehow  has  a  market  price?  His 
daughter,  who  loves  the  ne'er-do-well  Gaston,  and 
Gaston  himself  the  impecunious  nobleman,  who  be- 
lieves in  always  showing  one's  nobility  by  giving 
more  than  the  law  requires,  and  making  up  for  it  by 
giving  very  much  less  on  other  occasions,  —  who 
scorning  money,  sells  himself  for  money,  deems  it 
ridiculous  to  be  in  love  with  one's  wife  (and  yet — 
and  yet  .  .  .  Oh,  this  deceitful  heart  of  ours!) 
.  .  .  surely  this  is  all  excellent  matter  for 
delicious  laughter! 

And  the  text  to  the  sermon  is  not  lacking  in  seri- 
ousness. Bourgeois  and  noblemen  each  affect  to  de- 
spise what  they  do  not  themselves  have,  and  they 
are  most  graciously  convicted  by  the  dramatist  of 
their  respective  limitations,  and  of  their  dire  need, 
therefore,  of  each  other's  good  qualities  possessed  at 
least  by  friendly  proxy. 

In  ''La  Ceinture  Doree"  ('55)  and  "Un  Beau 
Mariage"  ( '59)  the  economic  relations  of  the  French 
conception  of  marriage  are  pointedly  discussed,  but 
the  plays  naturally  appeal  less  to  the  foreign  reader. 

Now  follows  at  length  that  great  and  terrible 
series,  "Les  Lionnes  Pauvres"  ('58),  "Les  Ef- 
f routes"  ( '61),  "Le  Fils  de  Giboyer"  ( '62),  in  which 
lust  of  wealth  is  shown  to  be  the  corrupter  of  soci- 
ety; and  "La  Contagion"  ('66)  and  "Les  Leons  et 


16  EMILE  AUGIER 

Kenards"  ('69),  in  which  the  hideous  cynicism  is 
presented  to  us,  which  derives  from  the  plutocratic 
ideal,  such  as  will,  if  left  to  itself,  utterly  destroy 
society.  Creations  like  Seraphine,  Vermouillet, 
Giboyer  and  d'Estrigaud  are  in  themselves  suffi- 
cient witness  to  the  genius  of  Augier.  We  shudder 
when  we  think  of  them,  and  yet  it  is  rare  that  we  are 
not  made  to  understand  all,  and  therefore  pardon 
all,  before  we  reach  the  end  of  any  play. 

V. 

The  situation  of  "Les  Effrontes"  ('61)  is  simple. 
M.  Charrier  is  a  respectable  banker,  whose  fortune 
is  accumulating  to  buy  a  career  for  his  son  Henri, 
and  a  fine  marriage  for  his  daughter  Clemence.  He 
failed  once,  many  years  back,  and  there  are  out- 
standing outlawed  debts,  of  which  nobody  knows 
except  Vermouillet,  a  speculative  bankrupt,  who 
scorns  all  honest  folk,  and  buys  a  newspaper  with 
which  to  exploit  Charrier 's  dishonorable  secret  and, 
if  possible,  obtain  his  daughter  in  marriage. 

We  meet  two  newspaper  men — Sergine,  the  hon- 
est editor,  and  Giboyer,  the  hired  pen,  disillusioned, 
cynical,  at  bottom  hating  himself  for  his  venality, 
but  feigning  a  sinister  indifference.  When  Ver- 
mouillet has  bought  the  paper,  Sergine  resigns  his 
post  as  editor.  ''When  one  cannot  drive  out  from 
the  Temple  those  who  buy  and  sell  in  it  then 
— one  gets  out  oneself."  To  which  Giboyer  retorts: 
" Heavens,  he  is  honest!  I  wonder  what  he  is  paid 
for  the  pose?"  In  the  end,  Charrier  acknowledges 
his  outlawed  debts,  thus  destroying  the  power  of 
the  blackmailer,  in  order  to  keep  the  respect  of  his 
son,  Henri,  who  will  join  the  army,  since,  strange  to 


EMILE  AUGIER  17 

say,  poor,  unsophisticated  youth,  he  prefers  poverty 
to  his  father's  dishonor. 

Such  is  our  introduction  into  that  venal  world  of 
the  Second  Napoleon. /^Clearly  its  ideal  is  "Wealth 
Without  Work."  Worldly  success  is  the  summum 
bonum.  "How  can  one  help  feeling  a  certain  respect 
for  the  owners  of  so  many  beautiful  things  ?  Riches 
are  a  kind  of  power,  whose  sacramental  sign  is 
luxury"  ("La  Contagion").  "The  world  does  not 
bow  before  the  people  it  esteems,  but  rather  before 
those  it  envies.  Riches  or  notoriety,  these  are  for 
the  world  everything"  ("La  Contagion").  Now, 
great  wealth  cannot  be  had,  of  course,  without  work. 
Therefore  the  wise  man  will  exploit  the  workers, 
or  those  who  are  already  possessed  of  wealth  and 
are  losing  their  grip  of  it ;  or,  last  and  best  of  all, 
exploit  the  Government,  which  means  has  the  advan- 
tage, besides,  of  bringing  to  the  exploiter  the  re- 
wards of  patriotism.^)  Now,  to  work  the  worker  is 
hard  work;  therefore  the  truly  wise  will  exclude 
that  difficult  method  of  "getting  on."  He  will  settle 
down  to  exploiting  the  idle  wealthy  by  shameful 
service,  by  pandering  or  flattery;  or  he  will  black- 
mail them,  being  cognizant  of  their  secret  vice. 
Similarly,  the  wise  man  will  become  a  political  para- 
site ;  malfeasance  in  office  on  the  part  of  the  power- 
ful, which  is  carefully  veiled  politically  and  socially, 
may  be  delicately  looked  into,  lifting,  on  the  sly,  a 
corner  of  the  snow-white  coverlet  of  respectability. 
If  one's  mood  be  more  courageous,  one  may  buy 
iniquitous  special  privileges,  taxing  the  public  for 
their  good.  Or  one  may  wriggle  through  the  loop- 
holes in  the  laws,  carefully  provided  by  hired  legal 
talent  of  the  first  order,  at  the  season  when  the  song 
of  the  lobbyist  is  in  the  land.  Of  course,  one  is  apt 
to  think;  and  he  who  is  "to  get  on"  must  not  think 


18  EM1LE  AUGIER 

overmuch, — at  least  not  along  certain  old-fashioned 
lines.  So  commercial  integrity  is  a  joke,  and  civic 
virtue  a  stuffed  specimen  of  an  extinct  species  at 
the  museum.  As  for  public  opinion  (which  is,  of 
course,  the  voice  of  God),  it  can  be  manufactured, 
if  one  discreetly  invests.  The  majority  of  the  stock 
of  all  the  principal  newspapers  can  be  held  by  a 
sort  of  loose  association  of  rogues  (understood,  of 
course,  to  be  successful  gentlemen  of  high  stand- 
ing), who  exchange  favors  (in  which,  to  be  sure, 
money  is  no  consideration),  and  then  the  miracle 
always  happens:  the  voice  of  God  thunders,  it 
" booms "  and  "boosts,"  "slams"  and  "lambasts," 
coos  and  purrs,  marvelously  to  order, — nay,  rather 
as  if  to  order, — for  of  course  it  is  the  spontaneous, 
mystical,  esoteric  voice  of  God,  which  in  turn  creates 
that  external,  exoteric,  obvious,  irresistible  voice  of 
God, — Public  Opinion! 

But  is  there  no  honest  remnant  by  way  of  public 
opinion!  Certainly.  There  are  those  who  play  the 
game  and  understand  not  the  rules;  who  merely 
watch  the  play  of  the  "big  fellows,"  and  do  likewise. 
So,  also,  in  the  matters  of  thought  and  opinion,  hon- 
est little  folk  and  honest  little  journals  are  beyond 
dispute  constitutionally  honest;  but  they  somehow 
catch  the  infection,  and  honestly  side  with  the 
rogues,  who  are  so  eminently  respectable,  and  they 
honestly  quote  their  "great  contemporaries,"  who 
are  so  notably  competent  in  the  gathering  of  news 
and  the  forming  of  judicious  opinions !  Besides,  most 
hitherto  honest  men  are  cautious  how  they  offend 
the  unexposed  rogue.  Honest  men  rarely  help,  and 
rogues  often  hinder,  the  private  devices  of  honest 
men.  Besides,  who  knows  but  that  we  shall  have  our 
turn  at  the  swag?  Hence,  "everybody"  is  covertly 
with  the  exploiters  of  the  public  purse,  as  each  ex- 


EMILE  AUGIER  19 

pects  vaguely  that  his  opportunity  may  come  along 
soon, — or  that  of  his  uncle  or  his  cousin  or  brother- 
in-law, — and  it's  all  in  the  family,  don't  you  know? 

In  such  a  society,  everything  is  for  sale, — friend- 
ship, love,  religion, — not  to  mention  glory  and  social 
standing !  And  is  there  any  hope  for  such  a  society  1 
Yes,  and,  what  is  more,  the  hopes  are  two:  There 
is  the  comic  hope,  and  there  is  the  tragic  hope.  The 
comic  hope  is, — thoroughgoing,  excoriating  ridicule, 
tempered  with  enough  good  humor  and  kindliness  to 
conciliate  those  in  whom  some  little  honesty  sur- 
vives. To  this  kindlier  hope  Emile  Augier  makes 
his  brave  appeal.  But  there  is  another,  to  which 
appeal  must  be  made  in  event  of  failure.  When 
comedy  on  the  boards  cannot  preach  effectively,  then 
tragedy  must  stalk  the  streets  and  public  squares. 
" Calamity!  calamity!"  to  reenthrone  the  hero, 
necessitating  courageous  action,  without  a  doubt, 
without  discussion.  As  early  as  "Le  Gendre 
de  M.  Poirier"  ('55),  Augier  writes  these  words: 
"It  is  rest  to  the  soul,  to  get  one's  life  ordered  ahead 
without  possible  discussion,  or  room  for  regret." 
(The  speaker  alludes  to  military  discipline.)  "Only 
from  this  tyrannical  scheduling  of  life  can  you  de- 
rive a  sincerely  careless  gaiety.  You  know  your 
duty,  you  do  it,  and  you  are  content."  Again,  "The 
first  cannon  ball  will  shatter  all  your  cynical  jests, 
and  the  flag  will  no  more  be  a  rag  at  the  top  of  a 
pole."  .  .  .  When  the  royalist  nobleman  is  sar- 
castically rebuked:  'Enthusiasm  for  a  flag  that  is 
not  your  own!'  'Bah!'  retorts  he,  'You  won't  catch 
the  color  of  the  flag  through  the  smoke  of  the 
powder.'  " 

In  "La  Contagion"  ('66),  four  years  before  the 
prophecy  is  fulfilled,  Augier  makes  his  honest  man 
cry  out :  '  *  Good-bye,  gentlemen,  and  farewell !  Con- 


20  EMILE  AUGIER 

science?  Duties?  Family?  Trample  under  the 
hoofs  of  your  herded  cattle  all  that  is  good  and 
holy!  But  mark  me,  a  day  is  coming  when  the 
truths  that  have  been  jeered  at  and  hooted  will 
be  affirmed  with  a  roar  of  thunder.  Good-bye,  gen- 
tlemen. I  am  not  one  of  your  set. ' ' 

Clearly  it  is  a  case  with  Augier  of  kill  or  cure; 
cure  with  comedy,  or  trust  providence  to  kill,  and 
God — for  a  resurrection!  Augier  is  a  prophet  like 
Hugo.  And  who  is  the  great  utterer  of  that  period? 
Hugo,  who  saw  things  melodramatically  from  a 
distance,  magnified  and  out  of  perspective,  and  gave 
us  his  immortal  "Les  Chatiments, ' '  or  Emile 
Augier  with  his  noble  series  of  satiric  plays,  silenced 
by  the  fulfillment  of  his  prophet's  prediction?  For 
after  the  Franco-Prussian  War  be  it  noted  the 
gracious  Augier  thundered  no  more. 

VI. 

But  to  return  to  our  series.  If  "Les  Effrontes" 
introduced  us  to  this  decadent  world  of  the  Second 
Empire,  "Le  Fils  de  Giboyer"  makes  us  under- 
stand many  things  and  shows  us  perhaps  for  the 
first  time  the  pathos  of  corruption.  Giboyer  has 
sold  his  conscience,  first  to  maintain  his  father; 
then  to  rear  as  an  honest  man  his  son,  Maximilien 
Gerard.  He  has  never  acknowledged  this  son,  whom 
he  adores,  lest  his  father's  example  and  reputation 
should  injure  him.  "I  shall  make  of  Maximilien 
what  I  never  could  be — an  honorable  and  an  hon- 
ored man.  It's  my  fad  to  serve  as  manure,  enrich- 
ing the  soil,  that  a  certain  lily  be  nourished  to 
perfect  beauty.  Isn't  my  fad  as  good  as  that  of 
another?"  Again  Giboyer  expresses  himself:  "I 
have  written  a  book  that  contains  all  my  experience 


EMILE  AUGIER  21 

— all  my  own  ideas.  I  think  it  is  good,  and  what's 
more — true.  I  am  proud  of  it.  It  is  a  sufficient 
excuse  for  my  life.  But  I  sha'n't  publish  it  with 
my  name,  for  fear  my  name  might  not  unjustly 
discredit  it." 

Now  this  poor  Giboyer,  this  pathetic  "game- 
bagger,"  serves  as  the  deus  in  machina  of  "Le 
Fils  de  Giboyer,"  which  perhaps  is  the  most  charm- 
ing of  the  series  under  discussion.  His  foil  and 
dupe  is  Marechal,  who  can  best  be  described  by  his 
own  words  in  pompous  soliloquy:  "There  will 
soon  be  nothing  sacred  on  earth;  no  way  of  enjoy- 
ing one's  fortune  in  peace — so  that  the  people  must 
have  a  religion"  (contemplating  himself  as  the 
chosen  parliamentary  tool  of  the  nobility) — "I  am 
born  for  an  orator ;  see,  I  have  the  voice !  The  per- 
sonal presence !  Gestures !  All  the  gifts  a  man  can't 
acquire!  As  for  the  rest" —  (Looking  at  the  speech 
made  by  Giboyer  and  lying  on  the  table) — "that 
can  be  learned  by  heart."  After  a  few  bars  of 
the  music,  Giboyer  interrupts  himself:  "Ha,  what 
a  speech!  It  almost  kindles  the  fire  of  conviction 
in  myself!" 

The  plot  of  our  play  is  ingenious  and  yet  very 
simple.  The  speech  Giboyer  has  written  for 
Marechal  converts  or  rather  perverts  Maximilien. 
"It  distresses  me  like  all  reasoning  to  which  you 
can  make  no  valid  answer,  but  against  which  never- 
theless a  deep-seated  feeling  protests."  So  Giboyer, 
to  save  his  son  intellectually  and  politically,  con- 
fesses to  him  that  he  wrote  the  speech  himself.  An 
intrigue  robs  Marechal  before  public  delivery  of 
the  speech,  and  Giboyer  provides  another  express- 
ing this  time  his  real  opinions,  which  speech  he 
pretends  to  have  been  written  by  Maximilien,  and 
with  which  Marechal  makes  a  tremendous,  unex- 


22  EMILE  AUGIER 
pected  success.  Then  Giboyer  holds  over  Marechal 
the  secret  of  the  speech,  and  so  obtains  his  consent 
for  the  marriage  of  the  politician's  daughter  to 
Maximilien.  It  is  in  vain  that  Maximilien  protests 
to  his  father,  whom  he  now  knows.  ''What  right 
can  you  have  to  render  me  dishonorable  services'?" 
"All,  my  boy,"  replies  Giboyer,  "to  keep  you,  my 
son,  from  temptation,  to  keep  you  clean  and  honor- 
able. I  began for  my  father."  Maximilien 

interrupts.  "And  so  now  you  continue  at  it  for 
your  son  ? ' '  (Maximilien  aside) — ' ' Heaven,  I  am  his 
virtue."  Giboyer  returns  to  the  victorious  assault. 
"Grant  me  this  one  only  boon,  my  son,  to  see  you 
happy."  Here  let  the  curtain  drop. 

We  shall  not  have  space  in  this  brief  article  to 
deal  with  our  pentalogy  and  shall  therefore  conclude 
with  comments  on  the  third  part  of  the  trilogy, 
so  that  the  reader  of  our  translation  can  form  a 
juster  notion  of  the  value  they  have  as  parts  of 
the  larger  whole. 

Granted  a  society  as  thoroughly  corrupt  as  that 
of  Napoleon  the  Third's  regime,  it  is  clear  there 
will  have  to  be  some  sort  of  cynic  philosophy  in  the 
mouth  of  every  one  for  justification  at  the  secret 
judgment-bar  of  his  neighbor's  conscience.  How- 
ever we  may  acquit  ourselves,  we  know  that  the 
spectator — even  the  friendliest — views  our  conduct 
with  wholly  impartial  alien  eyes,  and  penetrates 
to  the  core  of  the  mystery — or  rather,  mystification. 
For  this  purpose  of  throwing  dust  in  the  eyes  of 
our  interested  neighbor,  since  he  is  doubtless  an 
indifferent  philosopher,  no  philosophy  will  serve  as 
such.  The  antidote  to  the  divine  comic  is,  from  the 
hellish  point  of  view,  devilish  laughter — in  a  word 
the  cynic  jeer,  the  jest  of  unbelief,  the  vicious 
caricature  of  honor  and  virtue,  flippantly  light  or 


EMILE  AUGIER  23 

sardonic — la  blague.  "La  Contagion"  gives  us  a 
definition  of  this  devilish  laughter  in  the  dialogue 
of  Lucien,  the  disciple  of  the  villain  d'Estrigaud 
and  the  tenacious  conservative  Tenancier: 

LUCIEN.  It  is  a  kind  of  wit — a  very  modern  kind.  It 
is  due  to  a  reaction  against  the  emphatic  iterations  of  the 
commonplace  in  which  our  fathers  so  freely  indulged.  Yes, 
they  have  so  used  and  abused  the  fine  phrases,  till  these  have 
become  a  cant,  that  disgusts  us  young  men  of  today. 

TENANCIER.  So  much  the  worse  for  you,  sir.  Fine 
phrases  express  fine  sentiments.  Fatigue  with  the  former 
soon  degenerates  into  distaste  for  the  latter.  What  you  most 
delight  in  covering  with  ridicule  is  virtue,  enthusiasm,  or  for 
the  matter  of  that,  any  definite  convictions.  Oh,  of  course, 
you  don't  profess  disbelief.  Heaven  f orfend !  You  don't  rise 
above  mere  indifference.  Anything  beyond  is  in  your  eyes 
pedantry.  This  abominable  jesting  spirit  plays  a  greater  part 
in  lowering  the  moral  level  than  is  generally  supposed.  Your 
blague  is  after  all  nothing  more  nor  less  than  derision  of  what- 
ever uplifts  the  spirit.  No  school  that,  for  honest  men  and 
good  citizens.  One  begins,  of  course,  by  being  better  than  one 
lets  on,  and  then  by  degrees  one  is  as  bad  or  even  worse. 

In  the  course  of  the  play  we  see  Lucien  receiving 
lessons  in  the  art  of  devilish  laughter  from  the 
initiate  d'Estrigaud.  Before  the  pupil  is  set  up 
for  worship  the  gilded  image  of  the  great  king — 
the  traditional  Sardanapalus.  Lucien  holds  up  his 
hands  in  devout  astonishment  at  this  master-stroke 
of  genius:  "How  horribly,  how  deliciously 
immoral!"  To  which  d'Estrigaud  with  a  soothing 
gesture  replies:  "Oh,  no,  my  boy;  just  the  inevi- 
table logical  conclusion,  drawn  gently  from  our 
premises.  Of  all  the  sages  and  worthies  of  antiquity 
Sardanapalus  is  the  only  one  who  was  endowed 
with  common  sense.  Compare,  for  instance,  his 
death  with  that  of  Socrates.  The  one  dies  pitiably 
in  obedience  to  the  law — the  death  of  a  pedantic 
schoolmaster.  The  other,  like  the  sublime  rebel  he 


24  EMILE  AUGIER 

was,  makes  of  his  palace  a  funeral  pyre,  and  takes 
along  with  him  all  his  delights  of  which  Fate 
thought  to  deprive  him  in  the  end." 

So  Augier  shows  us  that  the  spirit  of  la  blague 
sneering  at  all  unselfishness,  all  devotion,  as  callow, 
silly,  absurd,  since  more  or  less  altruistic,  ultimately 
leads  its  professors  to  glorify  the  vices,  pursued 
and  adored  as  perverse  virtues — yes,  will  even 
induce  on  their  behalf  a  devilish  enthusiasm,  wholly 
unmindful  of  self-interest,  a  devotion  to  the  prepos- 
terous, to  the  criminally  magnificent  and  megalo- 
maniac. Tenancier  clearly  diagnoses  the  case :  '  *  In 
order  to  be  caught  by  fine  phrases — by  cant  as  you 
call  it — all  that  seems  to  be  necessary  is  that  the 
spirit  of  the  fine  phrases  prove  sufficiently  ignoble 
and  dishonorable.  Ah,  how  pitiful !  How  pitiful!" 

In  the  course  of  our  play  the  innocent  young  man, 
Andre,  is  saved  by  the  supervention  of  a  moment's 
seriousness,  as  the  thought  of  his  mother's  supposed 
shame  smote  him  between  the  eyes  and  he  awoke 
to  behold  the  abyss  at  his  very  feet. 

D'Estrigaud,  the  incarnation  of  this  evil  spirit 
of  detraction  and  derision,  is  finally  thwarted  in 
"La  Contagion."  Poetic  justice  is  made  to  vindi- 
cate virtue.  This,  as  a  lover  of  pure  comic  art,  one 
cannot  but  regret.  Yet  no  sane  critic  will  over- 
much blame  Augier.  If  Moliere  could  not  trust  his 
audience  (including  such  men  as  Fenelon),  and 
posterity  (with  its  Bousseaus),  to  catch  the  drift 
of  his  great  satire  on  the  hypocrite  done  in  the  cause 
of  sincere  piety;  if  in  order  to  have  "Tartuffe" 
played  at  all  Moliere  had  to  resort  to  the  crude 
device  of  introducing  Louis  XIV.  in  the  last  act  as 
deus  ex  machina,  to  set  all  things  right  by  the  pun- 
ishment of  the  infamous  hypocrite;  clearly  Augier, 
the  less  gifted  disciple  of  Moliere,  having  no  Grand 


EMILE  AUGIER  25 

Monarque  to  side  with  his  masterpiece,  to  help  him 
out  at  the  last  curtain,  or  to  exercise  his  influence 
among  the  hostile  beau  monde,  clearly  Augier  must 
bow  to  the  will  of  the  Philistine  theatre-goer. 
Really  d'Estrigaud  should  not  have  been  thwarted. 
He  should  have  been  allowed  to  compass  his  ruin, 
by  the  total  extinction  of  the  divine  spark  in  him- 
self. He  should  have  been  damned,  not  punished. 
His  absolute  success  in  depravity  would  have  been 
a  truer  damnation  ethically,  because  truer  psycho- 
logically, and  more  consistent  comically.  In  plain 
terms  the  moral  question  at  issue  is  so  awfully 
serious  to  Augier  and  his  audience,  that  they  cannot 
let  the  comic  Dionysus  settle  it  in  his  own  charac- 
teristic and  artistic  way;  the  pedagogue  and  the 
law-giver  must  intrude  with  pointing  pole  and 
chastising  rod.  So  there  is  really  no  laughter  at 
the  expense  of  d'Estrigaud.  He  serves  like  the 
devils  in  those  Alpine  pilgrimages,  to  which  Brown- 
ing alludes  so  deliciously,  intended  to  convince  the 
peasant  of  his  righteous  devotion  by  giving  an  outlet 
to  his  energy,  in  well-aimed  mud-slinging — the  more 
mud  slung  at  the  depicted  devil  the  holier  his  soul ! 
It  is  a  pity  that  human  nature  has  not  yet  reached 
that  point  of  development  where  it  can  allow  the 
spirit  of  pure  art  to  draw  in  sweet  equanimity  the 
conclusions  from  its  premises.  So  Ben  Jonson's 
Fox  must  meet  with  condign  legal  punishment,  and 
d'Estrigaud  must  be  defeated  by  the  mechanical 
workings  of  the  plot.  The  more's  the  pity,  we 
repeat;  because  as  a  consequence  the  interest  of 
"La  Contagion "  lies  chiefly  in  the  logical  exposition 
of  the  character  of  d'Estrigaud,  while  the  comedy 
resides,  on  the  other  hand,  chiefly  in  the  playwright's 
intrigue.  So  the  comic  spirit  and  the  dramatic 
interest  do  not  make  one  common  impact,  and  the 


26  EMILE  AUGIER 

work  remains  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  highest 
art,  a  torso — headless,  therefore  brainless — pro- 
vided with  artificial  limbs  of  dramaturgic  cork ! 

VII. 

Looking  back  over  the  work  of  Augier  as  a  whole, 
we  cannot  but  feel  that  whatever  else  he  did  or  did 
not  do,  he  answered  effectively  all  the  calumnies 
directed  by  the  Puritans  of  all  time  against  the 
Stage  as  an  institution.  His  satiric  dramas  at  least 
are  lofty  in  spirit,  dignified  in  style,  sententious  and 
stern.  They  exhibit  a  compact  structure — a  familiar 
yet  tersely  significant  dialogue — and  a  dexterous 
stage  technique.  Nothing  is  lacking  to  put  Augier 
among  the  greatest  save  only  enough  of  that  vis 
comica,  that  vivacious  brilliancy,  of  Aristophanes 
and  Moliere,  or  of  that  saeva  indignatio  of  Juvenal, 
the  Old  Testament  prophets,  of  Dante  and  Swift, 
and  of  Hugo  at  his  best.  Had  either  or  both  of  these 
gifts  been  granted  him,  we  should  not  reckon  Augier 
among  the  great  French  Comic  dramatists,  but 
rather  among  the  score  or  so  of  World  Geniuses. 
As  it  is,  all  honor  to  him  and  all  gratitude. 

WILLIAM  NORMAL  GUTHBIE. 


GIBOYER'S  SON 

BY  EMILE  AUGIEE. 

A  Comedy  in  Five  Acts. 

Translated  by  Benedict  Papot. 

PEEFACE. 

Whatever  may  have  been  said,  this  comedy  is  not 
a  political  play  in  the  common  sense  of  the  word; 
it  is  a  social  play.  It  attacks  and  defends  only 
ideals,  irrespective  of  any  form  of  government. 

Its  real  title  would  be  "The  Clericals,"  if  such 
title  were  suitable  for  the  stage. 

The  party  it  aims  at  has  in  its  ranks  men  of  all 
kinds,  partisans  of  the  empire  as  well  as  of  the 
older  and  younger  branch  of  the  Bourbons. 
Marechal,  who  is  a  Deputy,  the  Marquis  d'Auberive, 
and  Couturier  de  la  Haute-Sarthe  represent,  in  my 
comedy,  the  three  fractions  of  the  clerical  party 
which  are  united  in  their  hatred  or  fear  of  de- 
mocracy; and,  if  Giboyer  calls  them  all  legitimists, 
it  is  because,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  legitimists  alone 
are  logical  and  did  not  give  up  their  principle  while 
fighting  the  spirit  of  '89. 

The  antagonism  of  the  old  and  modern  principles 
is,  therefore,  the  subject  of  my  play.  I  defy  anyone 
to  find  therein  one  word  going  beyond  this  point; 
and  I  am  accustomed  to  say  things  frankly  enough 

27  ' 


28  PREFACE 

so  that  no  one  has  the  right  to  accuse  me  of  using 
innuendoes. 

Then,  whence  come  the  objections  which  have 
arisen  against  my  comedy?  What  clerical  cleverness 
awakens  against  it  the  anger  of  parties  which  were 
not  attacked?  By  what  falsification  of  my  words 
can  they  pretend  to  believe  that  I  am  attacking 
fallen  governments?  It  is  certainly  very  clever 
tactics  to  awaken  against  me  a  lofty  sentiment  which 
finds  an  echo  in  the  hearts  of  all  honest  people ;  but 
where  are  these  enemies  whom  I  strike  while  they 
are  down?  I  see  them  upon  all  the  platforms;  they 
are  getting  on  board  the  triumphal  chariot;  and 
when  I,  weakling,  dare  to  pull  at  their  boots,  they 
turn  upon  me  with  indignation,  clamoring:  "Re- 
spect the  fallen  foe!" 

Really  it  is  too  funny! 

Another  reproach  was  directed  toward  me ;  it  was 
that  I  pictured  personalities. 

I  pictured  but  one :  Deodat.  But  reprisals  against 
this  defamer  are  so  legitimate  and  he  is  so  well 
armed  to  defend  himself! 

As  for  the  eminent  and  justly  honored  statesman, 
whom  they  accuse  me  of  having  put  upon  the  stage, 
I  protest  energetically  against  this  charge;  none  of 
my  characters  resembles  him  in  any  way.  I  know 
the  rights  and  the  duties  of  comedy  as  well  as  my 
adversaries ;  it  must  respect  persons,  but  it  has  the 
right  to  attack  facts.  I  took  hold  of  a  fact  of  con- 
temporary history,  which  seemed  to  me  to  be  a 
striking  symptom  of  the  troubled  situation  of  our 
minds ;  I  took  therefrom  only  what  belonged  directly 
to  my  subject  and  I  took  care  to  change  the  circum- 
stances so  as  to  remove  any  personal  character. 

What  more  can  be  asked  ? 

Shall  I  answer  those  who  blame  my  comedy  for 


PREFACE  29 

having  been  authorized,  that  is  to  say  for  being 
played?  That  is  a  delicate  point.  If  it  is  permis- 
sible to  compare  small  things  with  great  things,  I 
would  ask  these  puritans:  who  ever  dreamed  of 
blaming  Tartuffe  because  of  Louis  XIV. 's  tolera- 
tion? EMILE  AUGIEE. 


GIBOYER'S  SON. 

A  Comedy  in  Five  Acts,  by  Emile  Augier. 
Translated  by  Benedict  Papot. 

Represented  for  the  first  time  in  the  Theatre 
Francais,  on  the  First  of  December,  1862. 

CHARACTERS: 

MABQUIS  D'AUBERIVE. 

COUNT  D'OUTREVILLE. 

MB.  MARECHAL. 

GIBOYER. 

MAXIMILIEN  GERARD. 

BARONESS  PFEFFERS. 

MADAM  MARECHAL. 

FERNANDE. 

DUBOIS,  valet  to  the  Marquis. 

COUTURIER  DE  LA  HAUTE-SARTHE. 

VISCOUNT  DE  VRILLIERE. 

CHEVALIER  DE  GERMOISE. 

MADAM  DE  LA  VIEUXTOUR. 

Place,  Paris.    Time,  the  Present  (1862). 

Copyright,  1911,  ,by  The  Dramatic  Publishing  Company. 


30 


GIBOYER'S  SON 

A  Comedy  in  Five  Acts,  by  Emile  Augier. 

[The  Marquis'  private  sitting  room.  Door  at  the 
back.  To  the  right  of  the  door  a  small  bookcase;  to 
the  left  a  cabinet  containing  weapons.  Down  stage, 
left,  a  chimney  in  front  of  which  are  a  small  sofa 
and  a  small  table.  In  the  middle  of  the  stage,  a 
table.  The  Marquis  is  finishing  his  luncheon  at  the 
small  table;  Dubois,  a  napkin  on  his  arm,  holds  in 
his  hand  a  bottle  of  Xeres  wine.] 

MAKQUIS.  I  believe  that  my  appetite  has  come 
back  to  me. 

DTJBOIS.  Yes,  sir.  And  it  came  back  a  long  way. 
Who  would  think,  on  seeing  you,  that  you  have  just 
been  ill?  You  look  like  a  bridegroom. 

MARQUIS.    You  think  so! 

DUBOIS.  And  I  am  not  the  only  one.  All  the 
gossips  of  the  neighborhood  keep  on  telling  me :  '  *  M. 
Dubois,  that  man" — begging  your  pardon  for  the 
liberty,  sir — "that  man  will  marry  again,  and  sooner 
than  later.  He's  got  matrimony  in  his  eye." 

MARQUIS.    They  do,  eh? 

DUBOIS.    They  may  not  be  wrong. 

MARQUIS.  I  want  you  to  know,  Dubois,  that  when 
a  man  has  had  the  misfortune  of  losing  an  angel 
like  the  Marchioness  d'Auberive  he  has  not  the 
slightest  desire  of  marrying  a  second  one.  Pour  me 
some  wine. 

DUBOIS.  I  understand  that,  but  you  haven't  any 
heir.  That's  very  sad. 

31 


32  GIBOYER'S  SON 

MABQUIS.    How  do  you  know  I  would  have  one  ? 

DUBOIS.    Oh !  I  am  sure  of  that. 

MARQUIS.  I  do  not  care  to  be  a  father  in  partibus 
infidelium,  and  that  is  why  a  widower  I  am  and  a 
widower  I'll  remain.  You  may  tell  that  to  the 
gossips. 

DUBOIS.  But  your  name,  sir!  The  old  name  of 
Auberive,  will  you  allow  it  to  die  out?  Allow  an 
old  servant  to  be  deeply  grieved  over  it. 

MABQUIS.  The  deuce !  my  dear  fellow,  do  not  be 
more  royalist  than  the  king! 

DUBOIS.  And  what's  to  become  of  me?  If  there 
are  no  more  Auberives  in  the  world,  whom  am  I  to 
serve? 

MARQUIS.  You  have  some  money  laid  by;  you'll 
live  like  a  bourgeois  and  be  your  own  master. 

DUBOIS.  What  a  downfall !  I'll  never  get  over  it. 
Your  old  servant  will  follow  you  into  the  grave. 

MARQUIS.  Fifteen  steps  behind,  if  you  please. 
Dubois,  you  move  me.  Dry  your  tears,  there  might 
be  hope  yet. 

DUBOIS.  What,  my  master  yields  to  my  humble 
prayers  ? 

MARQUIS.  Nothing  of  the  kind.  I  have  served  my 
time  and  shall  not  reenlist.  But  I  care  as  much 
about  my  name  as  you  do  yourself,  you  may  be  sure 
of  that,  and  I  have  found  a  very  ingenious  combina- 
tion to  perpetuate  it  without  exposing  myself. 

DUBOIS.  How  fortunate!  I  do  not  dare  to  ask 
you — 

MARQUIS.  That's  right!  Your  modesty  is  very 
becoming  to  you.  Let  it  suffice  you  to  know  that  I 
am  preparing  an  Auberive  for  you.  This  very  day 
I  am  expecting — well,  I  am  expecting  some  people 
today. 

DUBOIS.    Oh,  you  best  of  masters ! 


GIBOYEE'S  SON  33 

MAEQUIS.  You  are  a  good  fellow ;  I  shall  not  for- 
get you. 

DUBOIS.     [Aside.}    I  hope  not! 

MARQUIS.  Clear  the  table.  I  shall  ride  today  at 
two  o'clock. 

BARONESS.     [Appearing  at  the  door.}     Bide? 

DUBOIS.  [Announcing.}  Baroness  Pfeffers.  [Exit.} 

MARQUIS.  Ah,  my  dear  Baroness,  to  what  is  due 
the  honor  of  a  visit  from  such  a  'beautiful  caller  to 
an  old  widower  like  me? 

BARONESS.  Eeally,  Marquis,  I  am  wondering  at  it 
myself.  On  seeing  you,  I  forget  why  I  came  and  feel 
very  much  like  going  away  at  once. 

MARQUIS.    This  is  wicked.    Sit  down. 

BARONESS.  No,  indeed!  What!  You  deny  vis- 
itors for  a  week,  your  servants  wear  tragic  faces, 
you  keep  your  friends  in  anxiety,  they  are  all  ready 
to  mourn  for  you,  and  when  I  reach  you  I  find  you 
at  the  table ! 

MARQUIS.  I  am  going  to  explain.  I  am  an  old 
beau,  and  would  not  show  myself,  for  the  world, 
when  I  am  in  bad  humor;  now,  gout  changes  my 
temper  to  such  an  extent  that  my  best  friends  would 
not  know  me.  That 's  why  I  hide  myself. 

BARONESS.  Good.  I'll  hasten  to  reassure  our 
friends. 

MARQUIS.  They  aren't  as  worried  as  all  that.  Tell 
me  about  them. 

BARONESS.  But  there  is  one  in  my  carriage,  wait- 
ing for  me. 

MARQUIS.    I'll  send  word  to  him  to  come  up. 

BARONESS.  But — I  do  not  know  whether  you  know 
him. 

MARQUIS.    [What's  his  name? 

BARONESS.    I  met  him  by  chance — 

MARQUIS.    And  brought  him  over  on  the  chance  of 


34  GIBOYER'S  SON 

his  being  needed.  [Rings.]  You  take  maternal  care 
of  me.  [To  Dubois.]  Go  down.  You  will  find  an 
ecclesiastic  in  the  Baroness'  carriage.  Tell  him  that 
I  am  very  much  obliged  to  him  for  his  kindness,  but 
that  I  am  not  ready  to  die  this  morning. 

BABONESS.  Ah,  Marquis,  what  would  our  friends 
say  if  they  heard  you? 

MABQUIS.  Bosh !  I  am  the  party's  enfant  terrible, 
the  spoiled  child,  every  one  knows  that !  Dubois,  you 
will  add  that  the  Baroness  requests  the  Abbe  to  have 
himself  driven  home  and  send  back  the  carriage  for 
her. 

BARONESS.    But — 

MARQUIS.  No  help  for  it.  You  may  go,  Dubois. 
Now  you  are  my  prisoner. 

BARONESS.    This  is  scarcely  proper. 

MARQUIS.  [Kissing  her  hand.]  Flatterer.  Sit 
down  this  time  and  let's  talk  of  serious  things.  [Tak- 
ing newspaper  from  the  table.]  Gout  did  not  pre- 
vent me  from  reading  our  paper.  That's  where  we 
feel  the  loss  of  our  poor  Deodat. 

BARONESS.  What  a  loss!  What  a  disaster  for 
our  cause! 

MARQUIS.    I  mourned  him. 

BARONESS.  What  a  talent !  what  fervor,  what  sar- 
casm! 

MARQUIS.  He  was  the  hussar  of  orthodoxy.  He 
will  be  remembered  as  the  angelic  pamphleteer,  Con- 
viciator  angelicus.  And  now  that  we  have  paid  trib- 
ute to  his  great  soul — 

BARONESS.    You  speak  of  it  very  lightly,  Marquis. 

MARQUIS.  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  mourned  him !  Let's 
see  whom  we  can  get  to  replace  him. 

BARONESS.  To  succeed  him,  you  mean.  Heaven 
does  not  create  two  such  men  at  one  time. 

MARQUIS.    .What  would  you  say  if  I  told  you  that 


GIBOYER'S  SON  35 

I  have  secured  a  second  edition?  Yes,  Baroness,  I 
have  unearthed  a  devilish,  cynical  and  virulent 
writer,  who  spits  and  bespatters ;  a  fellow  who  would 
drown  his  own  father  in  epigrams  for  a  small  re- 
muneration, and  would  devour  him  with  a  dash  of 
salt  for  five  francs  more. 

BARONESS.  Excuse  me,  Deodat  believed  what  he 
wrote. 

MAEQUIS.  Of  course!  That's  the  result  of  the 
struggle.  There  are  no  more  mercenaries  when  the 
battle  rages ;  the  blows  they  receive  give  them  a  con- 
viction. I'll  wager  that  before  a  week  is  over  this 
man  will  be  ours,  body  and  soul. 

BARONESS.  If  you  have  no  other  guaranties  of  his 
faithfulness — 

MAEQUIS.    I  have.    I've  got  him. 

BAEONESS.    How? 

MAEQUIS.    Never  mind.    I  have  him. 

BAEONESS.  And  for  what  are  you  waiting  to  in- 
troduce him  to  us  f 

MAEQUIS.  His  arrival,  first,  and  then  his  consent. 
He  lives  in  Lyons;  I  expect  him  to-day  or  to-mor- 
row. Give  me  time  to  dress  him  up  and  I'll  intro- 
duce him. 

BABONESS.  In  the  meantime,  I'll  tell  the  commit- 
tee of  your  find. 

MAEQUIS.  Please  do.  And  speaking  of  the  com- 
mittee, my  dear  Baroness,  you  would  be  very  kind 
if  you  would  use  your  influence  therein  for  some- 
thing which  concerns  me  personally. 

BAEONESS.    My  influence  is  not  very  great. 

MARQUIS.  Is  this  modesty  or  the  exordium  to  a 
refusal  1 

BARONESS.  If  it  must  be  one  thing  or  the  other, 
it  is  modesty. 

MARQUIS.    Let  me  tell  you,  my  beautiful  friend, 


36  GIBOYER'S  SON 

if  you  do  not  know  it  already,  that  these  gentlemen 
are  under  too  great  obligation  to  you  to  refuse  you 
anything. 

BARONESS.  Because  they  use  my  parlors  for  their 
meetings  ? 

MARQUIS.  That 's  one  reason.  But  the  great,  true 
and  inestimable  service  you  render  them  daily  is 
that  you  have  wonderful  eyes. 

BARONESS.  It's  just  like  an  unbeliever  like  you  to 
pay  attention  to  those  things. 

MARQUIS.  It  is  just  like  me ;  but  it  is  much  more 
like  those  grave  men  whose  chaste  vows  never  go 
beyond  this  mystical  sensuality  which  is  the  shame- 
lessness  of  virtue. 

BARONESS.    You  are  dreaming! 

MARQUIS.  Believe  what  I  tell  you.  That  is  why 
all  serious  cliques  have  always  selected  as  head- 
quarters the  parlor  of  a  woman  who  is  sometimes 
beautiful,  other  times  witty.  You  are  both,  madam. 
Judge  of  your  power. 

BARONESS.  You  flatter  me  too  much.  Your  case 
must  be  detestable. 

MARQUIS.  If  it  were  a  good  case,  I  could  win  it 
alone. 

BARONESS.    Come,  do  not  keep  me  waiting. 

MARQUIS.  Here  goes :  We  have  chosen  an  orator 
in  the  Chamber  for  the  campaign  we  are  preparing 
against  the  University;  I  would  like  the  choice  to 
be— 

BARONESS.    M.  Marechal. 

MARQUIS.    Eight. 

BARONESS.  What  are  you  thinking  about,  Mar- 
quis? M.  Marechal! 

MARQUIS.  I  know,  I  know !  But  we  do  not  need  a 
shining  light,  since  we  furnish  the  speeches.  M. 


GIBOYER'S  SON  37 

Marechal  reads  as  fluently  as  any  one  else,  I  assure 
you. 

BAEONESS.  We  elected  him  Deputy  on  your  recom- 
mendation. That's  a  great  deal! 

MAKQUIS.    M.  Marechal  is  an  excellent  recruit. 

BARONESS.    It  pleases  you  to  say  so. 

MAKQUIS.  What  more  do  you  want!  A  former 
subscriber  to  the  Constitutionel,  a  liberal,  a  Vol- 
tairian, who  passes  over  to  the  enemy  with  arms  and 
baggage — would  you  like  anything  better !  M.  Mare- 
chal is  not  a  man,  my  dear  madam,  it's  the  high 
bourgeois  which  comes  over  to  us.  I  love  this  good 
bourgeois  class  which  has  developed  a  hatred  for  the 
Revolution,  since  it  can  gain  nothing  more  from  it 
which  would  solidify  the  tide  that  brought  it  to 
power  and  make  a  little  feudal  France  for  its  own 
benefit.  By  Jove,  we  must  let  it  pull  the  chestnuts 
out  of  the  fire  for  us !  It  is  this  pleasing  spectacle 
which  has  led  me  to  play  politics  again.  So,  long 
live  M.  Marechal  and  all  those  of  his  ilk,  the  bour- 
geois by  divine  right !  Let  us  cover  these  precious 
allies  with  honors  and  glory  until  the  day  when  our 
triumph  shall  send  them  back  to  their  mills. 

BAEONESS.  But  we  have  already  several  deputies 
of  the  same  ilk.  Why  should  we  select  the  least 
capable  of  them  as  our  orator! 

MAKQUIS.  I  tell  you,  again,  that  it  is  not  a  ques- 
tion of  capability. 

BARONESS.  You  push  forward  this  M.  Marechal 
a  great  deal. 

MARQUIS.  Can't  help  it!  I  consider  him  some- 
what as  a  client  of  my  family.  His  grandfather  was 
a  farmer  of  mine;  I  am  his  daughter's  surrogate; 
those  are  bonds,  don't  you  know. 

BARONESS.    You  do  not  tell  me  everything. 

MARQUIS.    I  tell  all  I  know. 


38  GIBOYER'S  SON 

BABONESS.  Then,  allow  me  to  complete  your  in- 
formation. There  is  a  rumor  that,  in  times  gone  by, 
you  were  not  insensible  to  the  charms  of  the  first 
Mme.  Marechal. 

MABQUIS.  I  hope  you  do  not  believe  that  foolish 
story? 

BABONESS.  You  do  so  much  for  M.  Marechal 
that— 

MABQUIS.  It  seems  that  I  am  making  amends? 
Goodness  me,  who  can  feel  secure  against  evil 
tongues  ?  No  one — not  even  you,  my  dear  Baroness ! 

BABONESS.  I  am  curious  to  know  what  they  could 
say  about  me. 

MABQUIS.  Foolishness,  which  I  would  not  repeat 
to  you. 

BABONESS.    Do  you  believe  them,  then? 

MABQUIS.  Heaven  forbid!  What  appearance  is 
there  that  your  late  husband  married  his  mother 's 
lady  companion.  It  made  me  angry ! 

BABONESS.  That's  more  than  such  a  poor  fabrica- 
tion was  worth. 

MABQUIS.  I  answered  back  pretty  plainly,  I 
assure  you. 

BABONESS.    I  do  not  doubt  it. 

MABQUIS.  Nevertheless,  you  are  right  in  wishing 
to  marry  again. 

BABONESS.    Who  told  you  that  I  wish  it. 

MABQUIS.  Ah !  there 's  the  rub !  You  do  not  treat 
me  as  a  friend.  I  deserve  your  confidence  all  the 
more  because  I  do  not  need  it,  for  I  know  you  as 
if  I  were  your  father.  The  help  of  a  sorcerer  is 
not  to  be  despised,  Baroness. 

BABONESS.  [Seating  herself  near  the  table.]  Show 
me  your  sorcery. 

MABQUIS.  [Seating  himself  opposite  her.]  Will- 
ingly! Give  me  your  hand. 


GIBOYER'S  SON  39 

BAEONESS.  [Removing  her  glove.]  You'll  give  it 
back  to  me? 

MABQUIS.  And  what  is  more,  I  shall  help  you  to 
dispose  of  it.  [Looking  into  the  Baroness'  hand.] 
You  are  handsome,  rich  and  a  widow. 

BABONESS.  It  sounds  like  a  reading  by  Mile. 
Lenormand ! 

MARQUIS.  With  all  the  facilities,  not  to  say  temp- 
tations, for  a  brilliant  and  frivolous  life,  you  chose 
to  play  a  part  almost  austere,  a  role  that  requires 
irreproachable  morals,  which  you  have. 

BABONESS.  If  it  were  a  role,  you  must  admit  that 
it  would  very  much  resemble  a  penance. 

MABQUIS.    Not  for  you. 

BABONESS.    How  do  you  know? 

MABQUIS.  I  see  it  in  your  hand,  of  course!  I 
even  see  that  the  reverse  would  cost  you  more  in 
view  of  the  unalterable  calmness  with  which  nature 
has  endowed  your  heart. 

BARONESS.  [Putting  back  her  hand.]  Tell  me  at 
once  that  I  am  a  monster. 

MABQUIS.  I  will  in  time.  The  naive  ones  take 
you  for  a  saint ;  those  who  are  sceptical,  for  a  woman 
greedy  for  power ;  I,  Guy-Frangois  Condorier,  Mar- 
quis d'Auberive,  take  you  for  a  smart  little  Ber- 
linese  who  is  building  herself  a  throne  right  in  the 
middle  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain.  You  al- 
ready reign  over  the  men,  but  the  women  look 
askance  at  you;  your  reputation  offends  them,  and, 
not  knowing  how  to  attack  you,  they  fall  back  upon 
this  rumor  of  which  I  spoke  a  little  while  ago.  In 
short,  your  flag  is  not  big  enough  and  you  are  look- 
ing for  another  ample  enough  to  cover  everything. 
" Paris  is  well  worth  a  mass,"  said  Henry  the 
Fourth — that  is  also  your  opinion. 

BAEONESS.    It  is  said  that  somnambulists  must 


40  GIBOYER'S  SON 

never  be  crossed ;  yet,  allow  me  to  call  to  your  atten- 
tion the  fact  that  if  I  had  wanted  a  husband,  with  my 
fortune  and  my  position  in  society,  I  could  have 
found  twenty. 

MABQUIS.  Twenty,  yes — one,  no.  You  forget  that 
confounded  little  rumor — 

BABONESS.     [Rising.]     Only  fools  believe  it. 

MABQUIS.  That's  the  trouble.  You  are  sought 
only  by  witty  men,  too  witty  even — and  it's  a  fool 
you  are  looking  for. 

BABONESS.    Why  ? 

MABQUIS.  Because  you  have  no  intention  to  give 
yourself  a  master.  You  need  a  husband  whom  you 
may  hang  in  your  parlor  like  a  family  portrait — 
nothing  more. 

BABONESS.  Have  you  finished,  my  dear  sorcerer  ? 
All  this  is  perfectly  senseless,  of  course;  but  you 
amused  me,  so  I  cannot  refuse  you  anything. 

MABQUIS.    Marechal  will  be  speaker  ? 

BABONESS.    Or  I'll  lose  my  name. 

MABQUIS.  And  you  will  lose  your  name — I'll  take 
the  responsibility  for  that. 

BABONESS.    You  do  anything  you  please  with  me. 

MABQUIS.  Ah!  Baroness,  how  quickly  I  would 
take  you  up,  were  I  but  sixty.  [Dubois  brings  in  a 
card  on  a  silver  tray,  Marquis  taking  the  card.] 
Count  Hugues  d'Outreville.  [To  Dubois.]  Show 
him  in,  by  Jove,  show  him  in ! — No ! — Tell  the  count 
I'll  receive  him  in  a  minute.  [Exit  Dubois.] 

BABONESS.  I  am  in  your  way.  Serves  you  right ; 
you  should  not  have  sent  my  carriage  away. 

MABQUIS.  I'll  have  to  introduce  the  young  man 
to  you  some  day  or  another — why  not  to-day  I 

BABONESS.    Who  is  it! 

MABQUIS.    My  nearest  relative,  a  poor  relative. 


GIBOYEE'S  SON  41 

I  have  summoned  him  to  Paris  to  make  his  acquaint- 
ance before  bequeathing  my  fortune  to  him. 

BARONESS.  Your  curiosity  is  quite  legitimate. 
How  does  it  happen  that  you  do  not  know  him? 

MARQUIS.  He  lives  in  the  Comtat,  like  a  true 
feudal  gentleman,  and  the  last  time  I  went  there, 
during  the  life  of  his  worthy  father,  twenty  years 
ago,  Hugues  was  seven  or  eight  years  old. 

BARONESS.    He  has  a  fine  name. 

MARQUIS.  His  coat-of-arms  is  azure  with  three 
gold  bezants.  But  do  not  dream  about  him;  he  is 
not  the  kind  of  husband  you  need;  he  lacks  all  the 
nullities  your  ideal  should  have. 

BARONESS.    You  said  you  did  not  know  him. 

MARQUIS.  I  know  the  race ;  it  is  violent  and  enor- 
mous; the  father  and  the  grandfather  were  six 
feet  tall,  with  shoulders  to  match,  and  I  remember 
that  when  I  jumped  little  Hugues  on  my  knees,  I 
had  all  I  could  do — you'll  see  the  fellow.  I  pray 
you  be  indulgent  toward  him;  these  country  gen- 
tlemen are  not  always  as  polite  as  they  might  be, 
you  know;  great  hunters,  great  eaters  and  keen 
after  the  pretty  girls. 

BARONESS.    Goodness  gracious! 

MARQUIS.  We  shall  train  this  fellow.  [He  rings 
— to  Dubois,  who  enters.]  Show  him  in. 

DUBOIS.     [Announcing.]     Count  d'Outreville. 

MARQUIS.  [Going  to  meet  him  with  open  arms.] 
Come  along,  come  along.  [Very  much  astonished , 
he  pauses  for  a  moment.]  What,  are  you  the  big 
fellow  I  used  to  jump  on  my  knees  ? 

COUNT.  You  must  indeed  find  me  quite  grown- 
up, sir. 

MARQUIS.  [Aside.]  Yes,  like  a  bean-pole.  [Aloud.] 
Excuse  my  surprise,  cousin.  I  expected  broader 
shoulders  on  hearing  your  name. 


42  GIBOYER'S  SON 

COUNT.  Yes,  my  grandfather  and  my  father  were 
Goliaths ;  I  take  after  my  mother. 

MABQUIS.  You  are  welcome,  nevertheless.  Thank 
your  star  which  sends  you  into  my  house  just  in 
time  to  be  introduced  to  Baroness  Pfeffers. 

COUNT.  {Bowing.}  Madame  is  undoubtedly  a 
relative  of  the  Baroness  Sophie  Pfeffers? 

BARONESS.    I  am  she,  Count. 

COUNT.  .What!  This  model  of  piety,  of  auster- 
ity, of— 

BARONESS.    Please,  please,  sir. 

MARQUIS.  Why,  yes,  this  model  is  neither  old  nor 
ugly;  does  it  astonish  you? 

COUNT.  I  admit  that — But,  gratior  pulcliro  in 
corpore  virtus. 

BARONESS.  My  dear  Count,  I  deserve  neither  of 
your  praises. 

COUNT.  [Dumfounded.]  Ah,  Madam,  could  I 
have  suspected  that  you  understood  Latin — 

MARQUIS.  And  who  the  dickens  did  you  suspect 
of  knowing  it? 

COUNT.  Forgive  me,  Madam,  for  my  involuntary 
familiarity.  [To  the  Marquis.]  How  happy  M.  de 
Sainte-Agathe  will  be  when  he  learns — 

MARQUIS.  Who  in  the  name  of  goodness  is  M.  de 
Sainte-Agathe  ? 

COUNT.  You  haven't  heard  of  M.  de  Sainte- 
Agathe  ?  You  astonish  me,  for  M.  de  Sainte-Agathe 
is  one  of  our  shining  lights.  I  was  fortunate  enough 
to  have  him  as  a  teacher  and  he  is  still  my  director 
in  everything. 

MARQUIS.  [Aside.]  That's  no  gentleman,  that's 
a  beadle. 

BARONESS.     [Aside.]     How  charmingly  naive! 

DUBOIS.  [Entering.]  The  Baroness'  carriage  is 
here. 


GIBOYER'S  SON  43 

BARONESS.  [Aside.}  Azure  with  three  gold  bez- 
ants! [Aloud.}  I  shall  run  away,  Marquis;  I  am 
in  too  great  danger  here  of  sinning  through  pride. 
Good-bye,  Count.  Your  cousin  will  do  me  the  honor 
of  bringing  you  to  my  house,  but  I  warn  you  that 
you  will  have  to  leave  flattery  at  my  parlor  door, — 
Stay,  Marquis;  invalids  do  not  accompany  their 
visitors.  [Exits.} 

COUNT.    Is  this  lady  married? 

MARQUIS.  Yes,  cousin — I  have  been  very  ill — 
don't  worry,  it's  all  over. 

COUNT.  I  breathe  again!  And  what  was  the 
trouble,  pray? 

MARQUIS.  The  Baroness  is  a  widow.  I  thank  you 
for  the  interest  you  show  in  her. 

COUNT.     [Aside.}     He  is  very  peculiar. 

MARQUIS.  [Aside.}  I  don't  like  my  heir.  [Aloud.} 
Let's  talk  business.  I  have  no  children,  you  are 
my  nearest  relative  and  my  intention  is,  as  I  wrote 
you,  to  leave  all  my  property  to  you. 

COUNT.  And  I  promise  you  to  acknowledge  your 
benefaction  by  using  it  in  a  way  that  will  be  pleas- 
ing to  God. 

MARQUIS.  Make  whatever  use  of  it  you  please. — 
But  I  put  two  conditions  to  what  you  call  my  bene- 
faction ;  I  hope  that  neither  of  them  will  be  repug- 
nant to  you? 

COUNT.  As  the  first  is  to  add  your  name  to  mine, 
I  consider  it  as  a  favor. 

MARQUIS.  Very  good.  And  the  second,  to  marry 
a  woman  of  my  choice,  what  do  you  think  of  that? 

COUNT.    I  consider  it  a  filial  duty. 

MARQUIS.    That's  a  strong  expression. 

COUNT.  The  right  one,  sir,  for  I  might  say  that 
since  receiving  your  adorable  letter.  I  have  felt  all 
the  feelings  of  a  son  toward  you. 


44  GIBOYER'S  SON 

MAEQUIS.    What?    Eight  away?    Just  like  that! 

COUNT.  So  much  so  that  I  no  longer  considered 
that  I  had  the  right  to  dispose  of  my  hand  without 
your  consent,  and  that  I  did  not  hesitate  to  break 
off  a  very  rich  marriage  which  M.  de  Sainte-Agathe 
had  arranged  for  me  at  Avignon. 

MABQUIS.  I  hope  the  matter  hadn't  gone  very 
far? 

COUNT.  Only  the  first  notice  had  been  read  in 
church. 

MABQUIS.  Is  that  all! — And  under  what  pretext 
did  you  break  it  off? 

COUNT.  Well,  it  was  not  a  family  that  deserved 
much  consideration;  parvenues,  they  were.  I  hate 
the  bourgeois. 

MAEQUIS.  The  deuce!  How  are  you  going  to 
manage?  It  is  a  bourgeoise  I  intended  you  to 
marry. 

COUNT.    Ah!  Ah!  Charming. 

MABQUIS.  She  is  very  rich  and  very  beautiful, 
but  very  plebeian. 

COUNT.    Is  it  possible  you  are  serious? 

MABQUIS.  [Arising.]  So  serious  that  this  mar- 
riage is  a  sine  qua  non  condition  to  my  inheritance. 

COUNT.  Allow  me  to  say  that  I  do  not  under- 
stand what  interest — 

MABQUIS.  It  is  very  simple ;  she  is  a  young  girl 
I  have  known  since  her  birth  and  for  whom  I  have 
an  almost  paternal  affection.  I  want  her  children 
to  inherit  my  name,  that's  all. 

COUNT.     She  is  an  orphan,  at  least? 

MABQUIS.    Only  on  her  mother's  side. 

COUNT.  Well,  that's  something.  Mothers-in-law 
are  the  great  drawback  to  mesalliances. 

MABQUIS.  But  I  must  tell  you  that  the  father  is 
married  again  and  that  his  second  wife  is  very 


GIBOYER'S  SON  45 

much  alive.  But  she  belongs  to  the  highest  nobility. 
[Aside.}  Through  her  pretensions.  [Aloud.}  And 
she  signs  herself  Aglae  Marechal,  nee  de  la  Vert- 
piliere. 

COUNT.    And  the  father? 

MAKQUIS.  He  is  a  former  ironmaster,  a  noble  in- 
dustry, as  you  know;  a  well-thinking  man,  a  Dep- 
uty belonging  to  our  party. 

COUNT.    And  his  name  you  say  is  Marechal? 

MAKQUIS.    Marechal. 

COUNT.  How  short.  Couldn't  he  add  the  name 
of  some  landed  property  to  make  the  crudity  of  the 
mesalliance  less  glaring? 

MARQUIS.  I  have  something  better  than  that. 
You  would  marry  without  hesitation  Cathelineau's 
daughter? 

COUNT.    Certainly,  but  what  is  the  connection? 

MAEQUIS.  Between  a  soldier  and  an  orator? 
Speech  is  also  a  sword.  Within  a  week,  your  father- 
in-law  will  be  the  speaker  of  our  party. 

COUNT.    You  don't  say! 

MARQUIS.  I  got  our  friends  to  consent  to  his 
speaking  for  us  in  the  coming  session.  Hush !  it  is 
still  a  secret. 

COUNT.  Why  didn't  you  say  that  in  the  first 
place,  Cousin?  There  is  no  longer  any  mesalliance. 
The  good  cause  ennobles  its  champion. — And  you 
say  that  the  young  lady  is  rich? 

MARQUIS.  She  will  bring  you  enough  to  await  my 
inheritance  patiently. 

COUNT.  May  it  never  come  to  pass. — And  she  is 
beautiful? 

MARQUIS.  She  is  simply  the  prettiest  person  that 
I  know,  my  dear  fellow.  [Aside.}  And  I  boast  of 
it.  [Aloud.}  You  will  make  her  happy,  won't  you? 

COUNT.     I  am  bold  enough  to  assume  it,  sir.    I 


46  GIBOYER'S  SON 

understand  all  the  duties  imposed  by  marriage ;  my 
youth  has  been  a  long  preparation  for  this  sacred 
bond  and  I  am  able  to  say  that  I  shall  be  stainless 
when  I  assume  it. 

MARQUIS.    What  1 

COUNT.  Ask  M.  de  Sainte-Agathe,  who  knows  my 
most  secret  actions  and  my  most  secret  thoughts. 

MAEQUIS.  Many  compliments,  but  your  innocence 
must  be  like  that  of  Orestes,  my  good  fellow ;  it  must 
be  becoming  a  burden  to  you?  At  least  I  hope  so. 

COUNT.     [Lowering  Ms  eyes.]     I  admit  it. 

MARQUIS.    Good. 

COUNT.  May  I  ask  you  if  my  intended  is  a 
brunette? 

MARQUIS.     So  this  interests  you. 

COUNT.  It  is  allowable,  it  is  even  recommended 
that  one  should  seek  in  a  wife  some  of  these  perish- 
able charms  which  add  another  grace  to  virtue.  At 
least,  this  is  M.  de  Sainte-Agathe 's  opinion. 

MARQUIS.  That's  right;  we  haven't  heard  of  him 
for  a  long  time.  Tell  me,  Cousin,  does  M.  de  Sainte- 
Agathe  also  dress  you? 

COUNT.    Why?  " 

MARQUIS.  Because  your  clothes  have  such  a  cler- 
ical cut;  I  can't  introduce  you  in  that  deplorable 
costume ;  I  will  tell  my  valet  to  send  you  my  tailor. 

DUBOIS.  [Entering.]  M.  Marechal  is  here ;  shall 
I  bring  him  in  ? 

MARQUIS.  I  should  say  so.  [To  the  Count.]  He 
comes  in  the  nick  of  time. 

COUNT.    Does  he  know  your  plans  ? 

MARQUIS.  Not  yet,  and  I  shall  not  mention  them 
to  him  for  a  few  days.  [Aside.]^I  must  give  his 
mind  time  to  work. 

MARECHAL.  [Entering.]  By  Jove,  I  am  delighted. 
I  was  coming  to  get  news  about  you  and  I  was  some- 


GIBOYER'S  SON  47 

what  worried,  I  can  confess  that  to  you,  and  I  learn 
that  you  are  to  go  out  riding.  By  Jove,  Marquis, 
this  is  just  like  you. 

MAEQUIS.  Gout  is  like  seasickness;  when  it  is 
over,  it's  over. — Allow  me,  my  dear  friend,  to  intro- 
duce Count  Hugues  d'Outreville,  my  cousin. 

MABECHAL.  Highly  honored,  Count.  You  see  in 
me  the  oldest  comrade  of  our  dear  Marquis.  My 
grandfather  was  a  farmer  of  his,  and  I  am  not 
ashamed  of  it;  my  family  gained  ground,  his  lost 
some,  and  so  we  met  on  the  level,  one  forgetting  the 
superiority  of  his  birth  and  the  other — 

MAEQUIS.    That  of  his  fortune. 

MAEECHAL.  We  personify  the  alliance  of  the  old 
and  new  aristocracies. 

COUNT.  You  slander  yourself,  sir ;  you  are  quite 
one  of  us  by  the  same  right  as  Cathelineau. 

MAEECHAL.    What's  that  you  say? 

COUNT.  It's  but  a  step  from  a  great  soldier  to 
a  great  orator.  Speech  is  also  a  sword.  You  are 
the  speaker  of  the  party. 

MAEECHAL.  [Aside.]  I  wonder  what's  the  mat- 
ter with  him. 

MAEQUIS.  You  shall  become  better  acquainted 
some  other  time,  gentlemen.  You  ought  to  appre- 
ciate one  another.  For  the  time  being,  my  dear 
Count,  do  not  forget  that  you  have  to  consult  my 
tailor ;  it  is  an  indispensable  preliminary  to  Parisian 
life. 

COUNT.  Since  you  allow  me.  [To  Marechal.]  I 
shall  have  the  honor  of  seeing  you  again,  sir. 

MAEQUIS.  [Accompanying  him  to  the  door.]  What 
do  you  think  of  him? 

COUNT.    Fine  appearance ;  he  looks  like  a  genius. 

MAEQUIS.  You're  a  great  judge  of  human  nature. 
Good-bye. 


48  GIBOYER'S  SON 

MABECHAL.  Are  you  sure  that  your  cousin  is  in 
his  right  senses!  Cathelineau!  The  speaker  of  the 
party ! 

MAEQTJIS.  He  is  a  chatterbox  who  robbed  me  of 
the  pleasure  of  being  first  to  tell  you  of  the  great 
news.  But  to  begin  with,  my  dear  Marechal,  are 
you  quite  sure  of  the  permanency  of  your  conver- 
sion? Don't  you  feel  any  longer  within  your  heart 
the  slightest  liberal  virus? 

MARECHAL.    This  suspicion  is  an  outrage. 

MABQUIS.  Have  you  completely  given  up  Voltaire 
and  his  pomps? 

MAEECHAL.  Don't  speak  to  me  of  that  monster. 
'Twas  he  and  his  friend  Kousseau  who  destroyed 
everything.  As  long  as  the  doctrines  of  these  good- 
for-nothings  are  not  dead  and  buried  nothing  will 
be  sacred,  and  there  will  be  no  possibility  of  enjoy- 
ing one's  fortune  quietly.  The  people  must  have 
a  religion,  Marquis. 

MABQUIS.  [Aside.]  Since  he  is  no  longer  one  of 
them. 

MABECHAL.  I'll  go  further  than  that;  even  we 
ought  to  have  one.  Let's  go  back  frankly  to  the 
faith  of  our  fathers. 

MABQUIS.  [Aside.]  His  fathers !  Purchasers  of 
national  property! 

MABECHAL.  We'll  master  the  Eevolution  only  by 
destroying  the  University,  the  hotbed  of  philosophy ; 
that's  my  opinion. 

MABQUIS.  Then,  my  friend,  you  may  rejoice.  "We 
shall  open  fire  against  the  University  in  this  very 
session. 

MABECHAL.    You  overwhelm  me  with  joy. 

MABQUIS.  [Putting  his  hand  on  his  shoulder.] 
Don't  you  believe  that  in  this  memorable  campaign 


GIBOYER'S  SON  49 

the  voice  of  our  orator  will  ring  far  and  wide  and 
that  he  may  be  called  the  speaker  of  our  party? 

MAEECHAL.    What ! 

MARQUIS.  Yes,  my  dear  friend,  we  have  thought 
of  you  for  this  magnificent  part. 

MARECHAL.  Is  that  possible?  Why,  you  are  offer- 
ing me  immortality. 

MARQUIS.    Yes,  something  like  that. 

MARECHAL.  Dominate  the  assembly  with  gesture 
and  voice,  scatter  one's  thoughts  all  over  the  earth 
upon  the  wings  of  Fame!  But,  tell  me,  do  you  be- 
lieve I  will  be  able  ? 

MARQUIS.    I  was  just  admiring  your  eloquence. 

MARECHAL.  Yes,  between  us,  it  goes, — but  I'll 
never  dare  in  public. 

MARQUIS.  It 's  a  question  of  habit.  The  best  way 
to  learn  to  swim  is  to  jump  into  the  water. 

MARECHAL.  Yes,  but  I  must  not  keep  on  flounder- 
ing. 

MARQUIS.  We'll  give  you  a  life  preserver.  As 
your  first  speech  will  be  a  sort  of  manifesto,  we'll 
give  it  to  you  ready  made;  you  will  have  only  to 
read  it. 

MARECHAL.  Good.  If  I  only  need  courage  and 
conviction — the  public  won't  know  that  the  speech 
isn't  mine! 

MARQUIS.    Not  unless  you  babble. 

MARECHAL.  You  don't  believe  I  would,  do  you? — 
And  when  will  you  give  me  the  manuscript  ? 

MARQUIS.    In  a  few  days. 

MARECHAL.  I  shall  not  sleep  till  then.  I  can  con- 
fess my  weakness  to  you ;  I  love  Glory. 

MARQUIS.    All  great  souls  do. 

MARECHAL.    Am  I  quite  one  of  you  now  ? 

MARQUIS.    Quite. 

MARECHAL.    Well  then,  allow  me  to  call  you  Con- 


50  GIBOYER'S  SON 

dorier,  as  you  call  me  Marechal.  Call  it  childish  if 
you  want  to — 

MAKQTTIS.  Do.  You'll  give  me  back  my  title  after 
you  obtain  one. 

MARECHAL.  That's  how  I  understand  equality. 
That's  true  equality  for  you. 

DUBOIS.  [Entering.]  A  rather  shabby-looking  fel- 
low pretends  that  the  Marquis  made  an  appointment 
with  him. 

MARQUIS.  In  a  minute.  [To  Marechal.]  I  am 
sorry  to  send  you  away,  but  this  is  important  busi- 
ness. 

MARECHAL.  No  need  of  such  ceremony  between 
people  like  us.  Ta-ta,  my  dear  Condorier,  ta-ta. 
[Exit.] 

MARQUIS.  [To  Dubois.]  Now  show  him  in. 
[Alone.]  The  fool,  and  I'll  have  to  make  him  a 
baron  yet.  [Smiling.]  That  man  will  never  know 
all  I  have  done  for  him. 

DUBOIS.  [Announcing.]  M.  Giboyer.  [Enter  Gi- 
boyer.] 

MARQUIS.    Why,  good  morning,  M.  Giboyer. 

GIBOYER.    Marquis,  I  am  yours  humbly. 

MARQUIS.  Mine  humbly  ?  Ah,  yes.  Beg  your  par- 
don, I  have  somewhat  lost  the  hang  of  your  pictur- 
esque expressions.  I  have  learned  through  your — 
what  do  you  call  Maximilien  I — your  ward  ? 

GIBOYER.  That  would  be  pretty  ambitious  —  a 
guardian  is  a  luxury  for  which  the  little  fellow  had 
no  use.  I  am,  if  you  are  willing,  his  uncle  after  the 
fashion  of  Bretagne. 

MARQUIS.  Let's  call  him  your  nursling.  So  then,  I 
learned  through  your  nursling  that  you  were  coming 
to  spend  a  week  in  Paris  and  I  was  overcome  by  a 
great  desire  to  see  you. 

GIBOYER.    You  are  too  kind,  Marquis.    Your  desire 


GIBOYER'S  SON  51 

and  mine  met.  Believe  me,  I  would  not  have  gone 
through  Paris  without  knocking  at  your  door.  I  am 
not  ungrateful. 

MARQUIS.  Don't  let  us  speak  of  that.  Do  you 
know  that  you  have  not  changed  since  we  lost  sight 
of  one  another!  How  do  you  do  it? 

GIBOYER.  "We  must  believe  that  my  father,  fore- 
seeing the  ups  and  downs  of  my  existence,  built  me 
of  stone  and  cement.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  you 
also  accumulate  the  years  without  becoming  older. 

MARQUIS.  Oh,  I  grew  old  so  fast  that  I  haven't 
changed  for  the  last  twenty  years.  [Sitting  doivn 
near  the  table.]  But  let's  speak  of  you,  comrade. 
What  has  become  of  you?  Have  you  at  last  a  seri- 
ous position? 

GIBOYER.  [Sitting  down  also.]  Very  serious.  I 
am  employed  by  an  undertaker  in  Lyons. 

MARQUIS.    An  undertaker? 

GIBOYER.  Yes,  in  the  daytime;  evenings,  I  am 
ticket-taker  at  the  Celestin  theatre.  I  shall  not  ex- 
patiate upon  this  very  philosophical  contrast. 

MARQUIS.  Thanks,  and  what  is  your  position  with 
the  undertaker? 

GIBOYER.  Director.  It  is  I  who  say  to  the  guests 
with  a  pleasant  smile:  "Gentlemen,  when  you  are 
ready." 

MARQUIS.  Allow  me  to  wonder  that,  with  your 
talent,  you  did  not  achieve  something  better. 

GIBOYER.  It  is  easy  for  you  to  talk.  Achieving 
success  was  incompatible  with  the  charges  that  al- 
ways weighed  upon  me;  first  my  father,  then  Max- 
imilien. 

MARQUIS.  Then  why  the  dickens  do  you  amuse 
yourself  gathering  orphans? 

GIBOYER.  How  can  I  tell  you — the  Montyon  prize 
prevented  me  from  going  to  sleep.  [Arising.]  You 


52  GIBOYER'S  SON 

allow  me,  don't  you?  I  can't  keep  still.  And  be- 
sides, at  that  time,  I  had  a  good  position  on  Ver- 
nouillet's  paper;  I  had  at  last  my  foot  in  the  stirrup ; 
but  the  horse  died  under  me  and  I  fell  back  on  the 
pavement  just  when  I  had  to  pay  the  second  quarter 
for  the  little  fellow  in  college.  I  had  to  find  another 
position  at  once.  They  offered  me  the  management 
of  the  " Radical' 7;  I  accepted  it.  You  know  what 
the  manager  of  a  paper  was  then ;  he  was  the  goat, 
the  man  who  served  time.  Funny  profession,  but 
well  paid ;  four  thousand  francs,  with  food  and  lodg- 
ing at  the  expense  of  the  government,  eights  months 
out  of  twelve.  I  was  putting  money  by.  Unfortu- 
nately, '48  came  and  the  career  of  doing  time  was 
closed  for  me. 

MAEQUIS.  Why  didn't  you  offer  your  services  to 
the  "Republic"? 

GIBOYER.    She  refused  them. 

MARQUIS.    She  was  too  particular. 

GIBOYER.  I  was  frantic,  not  because  of  myself,  I 
never  had  any  trouble  earning  enough  to  buy  a 
smoke — but  because  of  the  child  whose  education  I 
would  have  to  stop.  It  was  then  that  I  thought  of 
you  and  appealed  to  you. 

MARQUIS.  Do  you  remember  the  time  when  you 
cursed  the  cruel  benefit  of  education?  Who  would 
have  told  me  then  that  you  would  ask  me  one  day  to 
saddle  a  poor  child  with  it  ? 

GIBOYER.  I  confess  that  before  I  sent  him  to  col- 
lege, I  had  more  than  one  talk  with  my  pillow.  My 
example  was  not  encouraging.  But  then  the  analogy 
in  our  situation  was  only  apparent;  the  family  of 
a  janitor  needs  more  than  one  generation  to  make 
its  way  into  society.  All  the  rushes  are  alike;  the 
first  assailants  remain  in  the  ditch  and  make  a  bridge 
with  their  bodies  for  the  followers.  I  belonged  to 


GIBOYER'S  SON  53 

the  sacrificed  generation;  it  would  have  been  too 
stupid  if  no  one  had  profited  by  the  sacrifice. 

MAEQUIS.  And  on  my  side,  I  was  glad  to  endow 
my  country  with  one  more  socialist.  But  coming 
back  to  your  case,  you  had  no  more  burdens  then — 
that  was  the  time  to — 

GIBOYEE.  That's  what  I  thought,  but  you'll  see 
my  luck.  The  papers  didn't  pay,  there  were  too 
many  of  them ;  so  I  conceived  the  idea  of  writing  a 
series  of  contemporary  biographies. 

MAEQUIS.  I  read  a  few  of  them;  they  were  very 
spicy. 

GIBOYEE.  Too  spicy!  I  had  been  foolish  enough 
to  play  the  fool-killer  in  all  earnestness.  What  a 
fool !  I  wrote  scathingly — duels,  lawsuits,  fines,  and 
everything.  My  frightened  editor  stopped  the  pub- 
lication and  when  I  wished  to  return  to  journalism, 
I  found  all  doors  barred  through  the  powerful  enmi- 
ties which  my  little  campaign  had  brought  me.  And 
Maximilien  was  just  going  to  leave  college ;  I  wanted 
him  to  have  a  sterling  education;  I  couldn't  hesitate 
or  pout  about  it,  I  took  off  my  coat  and  dived. 

MAEQUIS.    Dived  I    What  do  you  mean  by  that  f 

GIBOYEE.  You  know  only  the  professions  that  are 
on  the  water  level ;  but  under  the  surface  there  are 
fifty  slimy  industries  which  you  do  not  suspect. 
.What  would  you  say  if  I  told  you  that  I  ran  an 
agency  for  wet  nurses !  All  that  doesn  't  feed  a  man 
any  too  well,  but,  thank  goodness,  I  have  the  stomach 
of  an  ostrich.  I  ate  pickled  cow  in  the  good  days 
and  pebbles  in  the  bad  days,  and  Maximilien  is  a 
Ph.  D.,  LL.  D.,  and  the  rest!  He  traveled  like  the 
scion  of  a  noble  house !  And  he  is  as  honorable — as 
if  it  didn't  cost  anything! 

MAEQUIS.  You  have  a  certain  interest  in  the  young 
man. 


54  GIBOYER'S  SON 

GIBOYER.  He  is  my  only  relative,  and  then  when 
one  gets  old  one  is  likely  to  ride  a  hobby ;  mine  is  to 
make  of  Maximilien  what  I  wasn't  able  to  be  my- 
self— an  honorable  and  honored  man.  It  pleases  me 
to  be  the  manure  from  which  a  lily  grows.  This 
hobby  is  just  as  good  as  collecting  tobacco  boxes. 

MARQUIS.  I  admit  that,  but  why  did  you  not  ac- 
knowledge this  son,  whom  you  adore? 

GIBOYER.    What  son? 

MARQUIS.  [Rising.]  You  sly  fox!  I  know  your 
story  as  well  as  you  do.  Maximilien  was  born  in 
1837,  his  mother  was  a  newspaper  folder,  called 
Adele  Gerard,  you  are  his  father.  Am  I  correctly 
informed? 

GIBOYER.    Yes. 

MARQUIS.  You  quickly  lost  sight  of  mother  and 
child  until  November,  1845,  when  the  poor  girl  died. 

GIBOYER.    How  do  you  know? 

MARQUIS.  We  have  our  own  police,  my  dear  fel- 
low— Adele  Gerard  had  written  a  pathetic  letter  to 
you,  in  which  she  left  Maximilien  to  your  care ;  you 
hastened  to  her  deathbed,  you  wanted  to  recognize 
the  child  through  a  marriage  in  extremis;  but  the 
mother  died  before  the  ceremony.  And  then,  through 
a  strange  whini  which  I  would  like  you  to  explain 
to  me,  you  took  care  of  the  orphan  but  refused  to 
recognize  him.  Why? 

GIBOYER.  Marquis,  I  have  written  a  book  which 
is  a  resume  of  all  my  experience  and  all  my  ideas. 
I  believe  it  is  a  beautiful  and  true  book,  I  am  proud 
of  it,  it  puts  me  on  better  terms  with  myself;  and 
yet,  I  shall  not  publish  it  under  my  name  for  fear 
that  my  name  may  harm  it. 

MARQUIS.    Yes,  it  might  be  prudent. 

GIBOYER.  Well,  if  I  do  not  sign  my  book,  how  can 
I  sign  my  son?  I  rejoice  every  day  that  death  did 


GIBOYER'S  SON  55 

not  give  me  time  to  tie  the  chain  and  ball  of  his 
filiation  to  his  ankle. 

MARQUIS.    Does  he  know  that  you  are  his  father? 

GIBOYER.  What  would  be  the  good!  If  he  did  not 
keep  the  secret,  he  would  harm  himself;  if  he  kept 
it,  it  would  wound  me  deeply.  Besides,  why  put  into 
his  soul  this  cause  of  timidity  or  impudence  !  What 
would  I  gain  by  it?  Don't  you  see  that  he  would 
less  easily  forgive  me  my  faults  if  he  had  to  blush 
for  them  because  they  were  ancestral  blemishes  f 

MARQUIS.  Do  you  know,  my  dear  fellow,  that  you 
have  developed  a  wonderful  delicacy  of  feeling  since 
I  saw  you  last? 

GIBOYER.  They'll  develop  in  you  when  you  are  a 
father. 

MARQUIS.    Master  Giboyer,  you  forget  yourself. 

GIBOYER.  I  hit  back,  that's  all,  Marquis.  Now, 
let's  come  to  the  point,  for  I  do  not  suppose  that 
you  asked  me  all  this  through  idle  curiosity. 

MARQUIS.    And  what  do  you  suppose,  pray? 

GIBOYER.  That  before  offering  me  a  position  of 
trust,  you  wanted  to  make  sure  whether  my  secret 
was  a  sufficient  guarantee.  Is  it? 

MARQUIS.    Yes. 

GIBOYER.    Then  speak. 

MARQUIS.  [Sitting  down.]  How  much  do  your 
two  positions  bring  you  in  ? 

GIBOYER.  Together,  eighteen  hundred  francs.  But 
don't  take  that  figure  for  a  basis  for  your  offer.  You 
forgot  to  ask  me  what  I  came  to  Paris  for.  Now,  it 
happens  that  I  come  to  make  arrangement  with  an 
American  society,  which  is  starting  a  newspaper  in 
the  United  States,  and  offers  me  twelve  thousand 
francs  to  run  it.  Everybody  did  not  forget  me. 

MARQUIS.    I  proved  that.    So  you  know  English? 

GIBOYER.    I  invented  the  Boyerson  method. 


56  GIBOYER'S  SON 

MARQUIS.    And  you  consent  to  expatriate  yourself  I 

GIBOYER.  Certainly ;  unless  you  offer  me  the  same 
advantages,  in  which  case  I'll  give  you  the  prefer- 
ence. 

MARQUIS.  Won't  you  make  a  sacrifice  in  order  to 
remain  near  Maximilien? 

GIBOYER.  It  would  be  a  sacrifice  at  his  expense; 
for,  if  I  go  over  there,  I'll  bring  him  back  after  six 
years  an  income  of  three  thousand  francs,  that  is 
to  say,  independence. 

MARQUIS.  And  if  my  friends  and  I  should  under- 
take to  push  him  along?  I  am  still  interested  in 
him.  I  have  already  procured  him  the  position  of 
secretary  to  M.  Marechal. 

GIBOYER.    Much  good  that  does  him ! 

MARQUIS.  Well,  there  is  a  good  lady  there,  still 
youthful,  who  takes  great  interest  in  young  people 
and  is  very  successful  in  getting  positions  for  them. 
All  of  Maximilien 's  predecessors  have  good  posi- 
tions. 

GIBOYER.  Many  thanks.  But  the  place  I  have  in 
view  for  him  is  not  among  you,  and  I  am  the  only 
one  who  can  give  it  to  him. 

MARQUIS.    What  place?  and  among  whom? 

GIBOYER.    I'll  answer  no  more  questions,  Marquis. 

MARQUIS.  [Arising.]  I  see — 'tis  he  who  will  sign 
your  book?  Good!  So  you  transfuse  into  his  life 
the  quintessence  of  your  own ;  you  leave  yourself  to 
him  as  an  heirloom.  Bravo !  you  practice  paternity 
after  the  fashion  of  the  pelican. 

GIBOYER.  You  are  leaving  the  question,  Marquis ; 
let's  come  back  to  it,  please.  Here  is  my  last  word: 
I  want  the  same  salary  Deodat  had. 

MARQUIS.    And  who  told  you? 

GIBOYER.  You  don't  intend  to  enroll  me  in  your 
police,  do  you?  It  is  done  by  bigger  fellows  than  I 


GIBOYER' 8  SON  57 

am.  Then,  in  what  may  I  serve  you,  except  in  taking 
the  place  of  your  virtuoso  I  You  thought  that  shame 
would  not  stop  me,  and  you  were  right.  My  con- 
science has  no  right  to  be  prudish.  But  if  you 
thought  you  would  get  me  for  a  piece  of  bread,  you 
were  mistaken.  You  need  me  more  than  I  need  you. 

MAEQUIS.    That's  self-conceit. 

GIBOYER.  No,  Marquis.  You  might  perhaps  find 
a  literary  scamp  as  capable  as  I  am  of  emptying  a 
poisoned  inkstand  upon  anyone;  but  the  inconveni- 
ence of  this  sort  of  auxiliaries  is  that  you  are  never 
sure  that  you  hold  them.  Now,  you  have  got  me. 
That  is  what  enables  me  to  make  my  own  conditions. 

MARQUIS.  This  lopsided  reasoning  seems  unan- 
swerable to  me.  Deodat  had  a  thousand  francs  a 
month;  the  committee  wished  to  economize  on  that, 
but  I  shall  bring  your  reasons  before  them. 

GIBOYER.  Perhaps  it  won't  make  up  its  mind  with- 
out a  sample.  Do  you  want  me  to  fake  up  before 
this  evening  an  editorial  like  the  other's? 

MARQUIS.    Have  you  got  his  style  down? 

GIBOYER.  Sure !  To  make  use  of  it  in  defining  it, 
it  consists  in  doing  the  freethinker  and  taking  a  fall 
out  of  the  philosopher,  in  a  word,  in  fencing  and 
boxing  before  the  Holy  Arch.  It  is  a  mixture  of 
Bourdaloue  and  of  Turlupin;  it  is  joking  employed 
in  the  defence  of  holy  things.  The  Dies  irae  played 
on  a  penny  whistle ! 

MARQUIS.  Bravo !  Turn  those  claws  against  our 
adversaries  and  everything  will  be  well.  Tell  me, 
do  you  feel  capable  of  writing  a  speech  for  the  Cham- 
ber? 

GIBOYER.  Yes,  indeed;  I  also  keep  eloquence  on 
tap;  but  that's  paid  for  extra. 

MARQUIS.  Of  course.  And  what  pseudonym  will 
you  take  ?  For  you  cannot  serve  us  under  your  name. 


58  GIBOYER'S  SON 

GIBOYEB.  That's  evident,  and  it  suits  me  in  every 
way.  The  child  won't  know  that  it  is  I,  and  besides 
I  had  pressed  into  his  glass  all  the  juice  of  the 
former  Giboyer;  let's  pass  on  to  another  one.  Be- 
sides, I  am  sick  of  the  poor  fool  who  never  succeeded 
in  anything,  who  with  his  talent  couldn't  become  a 
man  of  letters,  nor  an  honest  man  with  his  virtues. 
Let's  shed  our  skin,  and  long  life  to  M.  de  Boyergi. 

MARQUIS.  The  anagram  of  your  name!  Fine! 
Tomorrow  evening,  I  shall  introduce  you  to  your 
backers.  [Giving  him  a  banknote.]  That's  for  the 
first  outlay;  don't  let  me  recognize  you  when  I  see 
you  again. 

GIBOYER.  Leave  that  to  me.  I  have  been  assistant 
stage  director  in  a  Marseilles  theatre. 

MARQUIS.  Till  tomorrow.  [Exit  Giboyer.]  Oui! 
What  a  day! 

DUBOIS.  [Entering.]  The  Marquis*  horse  is  sad- 
dled. 

MARQUIS.  All  right.  [Taking  his  hat  and  gloves.] 
Strange  fellow — it's  the  courtezan  who  earns  her 
daughter's  dowry. 

[CUBTAIN.] 


ACT  2. 

[A  small  parlor  in  M.  Marechal's  house.  Two 
doors — right  and  left.  Chimney  at  the  back.  To  the 
right,  an  embroidery  frame,  Madame  Marechal  is 
seated  near  the  frame  and  embroiders.  Maximilien, 
seated  near  her  on  a  stool,  is  reading  to  her.] 

MAXIMILIEN.    [Reading.] 

After,  alone  before  God, 
I  had  wept  all  my  tears, 

I  wished  upon  the  spots  so  full  of  sad  charms, 
To  cast  a  last  glance  before  I  died, 
And  I  spent  the  evening  visiting  them  again. 
Oh,  how  soon    .    .    . 

MME.  MARECHAL.  I  am  afraid  you  will  tire  your- 
self, M.  Maximilien. 

MAXIMILIEN.    No,  Madame. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  You  must  think  I  am  abusing 
your  kindness. 

MAXIMILIEN.  I  am  only  too  glad  when  my  occu- 
pation as  a  reader  fills  the  void  of  my  occupation  as 
secretary.  I  haven't  done  a  stroke  of  work  since  I 
have  been  employed  by  M.  Marechal. 

MME.  MARECHAL.    You  read  like  an  angel. 

MAXIMILIEN.    You  are  too  indulgent. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  By  the  way  you  read  verses,  one 
feels  that  you  love  them — I  adore  them.  Perhaps 
you  have  written  some  ? 

MAXIMILIEN.  I  did,  and  they  were  bad  enough  not 
to  tempt  me  to  try  again. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  It  seems  to  me  that,  had  I  been 
a  man,  I  would  have  been  a  poet — a  poet  or  a  soldier. 
Women  are  much  to  be  pitied,  I  assure  you.  They 
are  forbidden  to  do  anything,  they  are  even  forbid- 
den to  give  a  form  to  their  dreams. 

59 


60  GIBOYER'S  SON 

MAXIMILIEN.  Poor  women!  [Aside.]  What  as- 
tonishes  me  is  that  there  are  some  left.  [Aloud.] 
Do  you  wish  me  to  go  on  ? 

MME.  MAEECHAL.  If  you  are  not  tired  reading,  I 
shall  never  grow  tired  of  listening. 

MAXIMILIEN.    [Reading.] 

Oh,  how  soon  summers  and  ice 
Had  made  our  traces  disappear  from  the  vale! 
How  soon  on  these  paths,  our  feet  knew  so  welL 
Earth  had  forgotten  us! 

MME.  MARECHAL.  You  were  very  young  when  you 
lost  your  mother  ? 

MAXIMILIEN.    I  was  eight  years  old.     [Reading.] 

"Vegetation  like  a  sea  of  plants  " 

MME.  MAEECHAL.  And  you  never  knew  your 
father? 

MAXIMILJEN.    Never.     [Reading.] 

"Had  covered  all  with  its  climbing  waves. 
The  vine  and  the  thorn    ...     " 

MME.  MAEECHAL.  Poor  young  man !  Alone  in  the 
world  at  eight  years  of  age !  What  courage  you  must 
have  had. 

MAXIMILIEN.  None  at  all,  Madame.  No  one  had 
an  easier  life  than  I,  thanks  to  the  divinely  kind 
man  who  took  care  of  me. 

MME.  MAEECHAL.    A  relative  of  yours,  I  believe? 

MAXIMILJEN.  A  cousin  in  the  tenth  or  eleventh 
degree;  but  his  benefactions  have  made  our  rela- 
tionship so  much  closer  that,  on  calling  him  uncle, 
I  am  still  cheating  him.  He  had  no  children,  and  you 
might  say  that  he  adopted  me. 

MME.  MAEECHAL.  I  understand  that,  for  I  have  no 
children  either!  I  would  be  happy  to  find  someone 
for  whom  I  would  be  a  mother. 

MAXIMILIEN.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  you  have — • 
your  step-daughter? 


GIBOYER'S  SON  61 

MME.  MABECHAL.  Fernande?  Yes — but  I  would 
like  a  son.  A  son's  love  must  be  more  tender.  Poor 
Fernande !  I  cannot  be  angry  with  her,  her  coolness 
towards  me  is  fidelity  to  a  grave. 

MAXIMILIEN.  I  thought  she  had  lost  her  mother 
while  still  in  the  cradle. 

MME.  MABECHAL.  Oh,  not  at  all!  She  was  three 
years  old,  and  among  us  women,  sensibility  is  so 
precocious ! 

MAXIMILJEN.  Mademoiselle  Fernande  must  have 
worn  hers  out  before  she  got  her  first  teeth. 

MME.  MABECHAL.  She  doesn't  seem  very  open- 
hearted  to  you? 

MAXIMILIEN.    No,  indeed. 

MME.  MAEECHAL.  She  is  a  little  savage,  who 
brought  herself  up  alone.  Perhaps  she  is  a  little 
proud;  but  how  can  that  be  helped,  being  a  rich 
heiress  I 

MAXIMJLIEN.  Excuse  me,  Madame;  one  needn't 
be  rich  to  be  proud ;  it  is  a  virtue ;  but  Mademoiselle 
Fernande  is  not  proud,  she  is  haughty. 

MME.  MABECHAL.  Have  you  had  any  reasons  to 
complain? — 

MAXIMILIEN.  To  complain,  no,  for  I  do  not  care; 
but  really,  Mademoiselle  Fernande  displays  on  my 
behalf  a  superfluity  of  indifference  which  is  quite 
useless.  I  keep  myself  in  my  place  and  haven 't  the 
slightest  desire  to  be  set  back  into  it.  She  makes  a 
great  display  of  coolness. 

MME.  MABECHAL.  Perhaps  it  is  in  your  interest; 
she  might  fear — 

MAXIMILIEBT.    What  ? 

MME.  MAEECHAL.  You  are  young,  she  is  hand- 
some— 

MAXIMILIEN.  And  she  has  read  novels  in  which 
the  poor  secretary  falls  in  love  with  the  Baron's 


62  GIBOYER'S  SON 

daughter?    But  let  her  reassure  herself,  I  am  not  in 
any  danger.    Between  us,  there  is  a  river  of  ice. 

MME.  MARECHAL.    And  this  river  is  ? 

MAXIMILIEN.  Her  dowry!  with  which  she  would 
certainly  believe  me  to  be  in  love.  Eich  young 
girls — brr!  The  swish  of  their  skirts  resembles 
the  crumpling  of  bank  bills;  and  in  their  beautiful 
eyes,  I  read  only  one  thing :  * '  The  law  punishes  the 
counterfeiter. ' ' 

MME.  MARECHAL.  I  like  you  to  have  those  ideas. 
I  have  judged  you  correctly.  Alas,  we  must  confess 
it,  these  fine  feelings  are  found  only  in  men  brought 
up  in  the  school  of  adversity. 

MAXIMILIEN.  But,  Madame,  that  is  the  only 
teacher  I  never  had,  thanks  to  my  dear  protector. 

MME.  MABECHAL.  Do  not  blush  because  you  have 
been  poor,  M.  Maximilien ;  at  least,  not  before  me. 

MAXIMILTEN.  Not  before  you,  Madame,  nor  before 
anyone  else.  But  really,  if  I  have  known  poverty, 
it  was  at  an  age  when  one  does  not  understand,  and 
I  do  not  remember  it.  There  is  only  one  disagree- 
able impression  connected  with  my  childhood,  the 
impression  of  being  cold :  and  at  that,  as  I  saw  my 
little  comrades  with  chapped  hands,  I  would  have 
been  humiliated  if  mine  hadn't  been.  [Smiling.] 
They  were. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  It  becomes  a  man  to  joke  over 
his  trials ;  gaiety  is  one  of  the  most  virile  forms  of 
courage. 

MAXIMILIEN.    [Aside.]    She  sticks  to  it. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  If  I  had  a  son,  I  would  like  him 
smiling  in  his  strength,  like  you, — and  I  would  ask 
you  to  be  his  friend, — his  mentor  rather,  for  he 
would  still  be  very  young. 

MAXIMILIEN.  [Aside.]  She  must  have  married 
late. 


GIBOYER'S  SON  63 

MME.  MABECHAL.  I  wish  you  would  like  me,  M. 
Maximilien. 

MAXIMILIEN.  Certainly,  Madame.  [Fernande 
opens  the  door,  and  starts  to  go  out  again.] 

MME.  MAKECHAL.  Come  in,  my  dear;  you  are  not 
in  the  way.  M.  Maximilien  was  kind  enough  to  read 
to  me; — if  beautiful  verses  do  not  frighten  you,  sit 
down  at  your  frame  and  listen. 

FEBNANDE.  Willingly,  Madame.  [She  opens  her 
tapestry  frame  and  sits  down.] 

MAXIMILIEN.  [Aside,  and  designating  Mme.  Mare- 
chal.]  How  she  does  look  at  me !  Could  it  be  possi- 
ble that — ?  For  shame! 

MME.  MAKECHAL.  [Going  to  Fernande.]  This 
square  is  very  pretty ;  try  not  to  lose  it,  as  ypu  lost 
the  last  one. 

FEBNANDE.  [Working.]  I  suppose  1*11  find  it 
again. 

MME.  MABECHAL.  Some  day  when  no  one  will 
need  it. 

FEBNANDE.    Probably. 

MME.  MABECHAL.  You  can't  get  out  of  my  head 
that  you  said  it  was  lost  in  order  not  to  show  it  to 
Madame  Matheus. 

FEENANDE.    And  why  shouldn't  I  have  shown  it? 

MME.  MABECHAL.  Because  there  were  three  defects 
in  it,  I  think. 

FEBNANDE.    What  were  you  reading? 

MME.  MABECHAL.  "Jocelyn."  Will  you  begin 
again,  M.  Maximilien? 

MAXIMILIEN.  [Aside.]  She  has  a  peculiar  way  of 
looking  at  people.  [Reading.] 

"The  vine  and  the  thorn  stopped  every  step; 
The  grass  I  trampled  knew  me  not; 
The  lake,  soiled  by  the  fallen  leaves, 
Cast  them  back  on  its  heavy  waves. 
Nothing    ..." 


64  GIBOYER'S  SON 

MME.  MABECHAL.  What  are  you  looking  for?  I 
can't  listen  when  anyone  moves  around  me. 

FEBNANDE.    I  can't  find  my  blue  skein. 

MME.  MABECHAL.    You  lose  everything. 

MAXIMILIEN.  [Rising.]  Will  you  allow  me,  Made- 
moiselle ? 

FEBNANDE.  [Dryly.]  Don't  disturb  yourself,  sir; 
I  have  it. 

MAXIMILIEN.  [Picking  up  the  skein;  aside.]  Why, 
so  have  I!  [He  puts  it  on  the  mantelpiece.]  The 
minx! 

[Enter  Marechal  with  a  manuscript  in  his  hand.] 

MABECHAL.  I  was  looking  for  you,  M.  Gerard. 
Good  morning,  Fernande.  [She  offers  him  her  fore- 
head without  leaving  her  work;  he  kisses  her.]  Here 
is  work  for  you,  my  young  friend. 

MAXIMILIEN.  So  much  the  better.  I  was  complain- 
ing of  my  uselessness. 

MABECHAL.  Henceforth,  you  shall  not  be  idle,  I 
assure  you. 

FEBNANDE.    Why,  what's  the  matter? 

MABECHAL.  What's  the  matter?  Haven't  you  no- 
ticed, for  two  or  three  days,  that  I  have  been  looking 
preoccupied  ? 

FEBNANDE.    No. 

MABECHAL.  That's  strange!  I  thought  I  did, — 
anyone  would.  I  have  just  written  a  speech  which 
will  be  a  cannon  shot. 

FEBNANDE.  [Arising  and  going  to  her  father.]  A 
speech?  You  are  going  to  speak? 

MABECHAL.    I  must. 

FEBNANDE.  Oh,  father,  speech  is  silver,  but  silence 
is  golden — 

MABECHAL.  There  are  circumstances,  daughter, 
there  are  positions  in  which  silence  is  a  dereliction, 
not  to  say  a  betrayal — isn't  that  so,  Aglae? 


GIBOYER'S  SON  65 

MME.  MAKECHAL.  Undoubtedly;  your  father  owes 
something  to  his  party,  to  his  friends  and,  I  daresay, 
to  his  alliance  with  a  la  Vertpilliere. 

FEBNANDE.    It  is  you,  Madame,  who  urge  him  on? 

MME.  MAKECHAL.  Are  you  sorry  to  see  him  emerge 
from  his  obscurity? 

FEENANDE.  His  quiet  life  did  not  keep  my  vanity 
on  edge, — his  humble  name  was  sufficient  for  me  who 
love  it.  [To  MarechaL]  Why  this  ambition?  I  shall 
not  live  on  the  day  you  ascend  this  rostrum. 

MAEECHAL.  It  isn't  ambition,  daughter,  it's  duty! 
Do  not  try  to  shake  my  resolution;  it  would  be  in 
vain.  Honor  speaks,  it  must  be  listened  to.  [Fer- 
nande  goes  back  to  her  tapestry.]  My  dear  Gerard, 
you  are  going  to  do  me  the  pleasure  of  copying  over 
my  scribble,  in  your  finest  hand;  for  I  couldn't  read 
it  myself. 

FEBNANDE.    Oh,  you're  going  to  read? 

MAXIMILIEN.    I'll  go  to  work  at  once. 

MAEECHAL.  Glance  over  it  first  to  see  if  you  can 
read  it.  [To  Fernande.]  Yes,  I  shall  read  it.  It's 
not  so  troublesome?  What  a  distrustful  girl?  I 
shall  read  my  first  speech ;  as  to  the  second,  we'll  see. 
[Tapping  her  cheek.]  So  we  think  that  father  is  an 
old  back  number? 

[Fernande  kisses  his  hand.  Maximilien  sits  down 
in  a  corner  and  glances  over  the  manuscript.] 

A  SEBVANT.    [Announcing.]    Baroness  Pfeffers. 

[Enter  the  Baroness,  she  has  her  tapestry  rotted 
in  her  muff.~\ 

MME.  MAEECHAL.    Ah,  Baroness. 

BAEONESS.  This  is  not  your  day,  Madame;  but  I 
didn't  wish  to  pass  your  door  without  knocking,  al- 
though I  still  hope  to  see  you  at  my  house  tomorrow 
evening. 

MAEECHAL.   We  '11  go  if  we  have  to  go  on  our  heads ! 


66  GIBOYER'S  SON 

BABONESS.    And  you  are  well,  orator? 

MABECHAL.    And  ready  for  the  fray,  Madame. 

BAKONESS.  For  a  triumph!  I  also  had  a  little 
favor  to  ask  of  you,  Madame. 

MME.  MABECHAL.    I  regret  that  it  is  a  little  one. 

BABONESS.  We  are  both  patronesses  of  the  mis- 
sion for  the  little  Chinese ;  I  have  disposed  of  all  my 
tickets  and  am  asked  for  more.  Can  you  let  me  have 
about  ten? 

MABECHAL.  They  are  not  clamoring  for  her  tickets 
as  they  do  for  yours,  Baroness. 

MME.  MABECHAL.  [Aside.]  The  brute.  [Aloud.] 
I  will  see  if  I  have  any  left. 

BAEONESS.  Must  you  disturb  your  self?  Send  them 
to  me. 

MME.  MAEECHAL.  No,  I  prefer  to  give  them  to  you 
at  once.  It  is  surer :  they  might  get  them  from  me. 

MAEECHAL.  [In  a  low  voice.]  You  still  have  all 
of  them. 

MME.  MAEECHAL.  [In  a  low  voice.]  You  never 
say  anything  but  unpleasant  things.  [Exit.] 

BAEONESS.  [Drawing  near  Fernande's  frame.] 
Oh,  you  also  belong  to  the  Tabernacle  society,  Made- 
moiselle? 

FEBNANDE.    No,  Madame. 

BAEONESS.  Is  not  what  you  are  doing  there  a 
square  for  the  carpet  of  the  faithful  ? 

FEENANDE.    It's  anything  you  please. 

BABONESS.  And  yet,  there  is  the  regulation  bor- 
der; see.  [She  unrolls  the  tapestry  she  takes  from 
her  muff.] 

FEENANDE.    [Aside.]    Well. 

MAEECHAL.    Is  that  your  work?    It's  charming! 

FEENANDE.  It's  very  pretty!  It  must  have  cost 
you  a  great  deal  of  time,  didn't  it? 

BAEONESS.    No,  indeed. 


GIBOYER'S  SON  67 

MME.  MABECHAL.  [Returning.]  I  have  only  nine 
left ;  here  they  are. 

MABECHAL.  [Showing  her  the  Baroness'  tapestry.] 
Look,  my  dear. 

MME.  MABECHAL.  [To  Fernande.]  Oh,  you  found 
it  again? 

MABECHAL.    What's  that  you  say? 

MME.  MABECHAL.  Why,  yes,  it's  the  square  that 
Fernande  thought  she  had  lost. 

MAEECHAL.    You're  dreaming,  my  dear. 

MME.  MABECHAL.  It's  easy  to  recognize  it.  Here 
are  the  three  defects.  Isn't  that  so,  Fernande? 

FEBNANDE.    Why,  so  it  is. 

BABONESS.    [Aside.]    Ah ! 

MAXIMILIEN.    [Aside.]    There  now ! 

MABECHAL.    [Aside.]    Heavens,  what  a  break ! 

BABONESS.  [Threatening  Fernande  with  her  fin- 
ger.] Oh,  you  roguish  girl,  you  had  recognized  your 
work,  and  were  making  fun  of  me  by  asking  me  if  it 
took  a  great  deal  of  my  time ! 

FEBNANDE.  I  wanted  to  compel  you  to  admit  that 
your  benevolence  did  not  give  you  leisure  to  em- 
broider. 

MABECHAL.  [Aside.]  The  child  is  witty  enough 
when  need  be. 

MME.  MAEECHAL.    Tell  me  what's  going  on,  please. 

BABONESS.  Who  is  the  society  woman  who  does 
her  own  tapestry  and  wears  her  own  hair?  These 
deceits  are  so  generally  admitted  that  when  a  false 
braid  becomes  loose  in  the  presence  of  our  friends, 
we  pin  it  back  with  a  smile.  [She  rolls  back  her 
square.]  And  that's  what  I'm  doing. 

MABECHAL.  [Aside.]  Charming!  Adorable!  One 
could  not  be  more  graceful ! 

BABONESS.    What  astonishes  me  in  this  adventure 


68  GIBOYER'S  SON 

is  not  that  my  tapestry  is  not  my  work,  since  I  buy 
it,  but  that  it  should  be  yours,  Mademoiselle. 

MABECHAL.  Yes,  by  the  way,  how  did  it  come  to 
be  sold  to  you? 

MME.  MABECHAL.  [To  Fernande.]  I  always  sus- 
pected the  faithfulness  of  your  chambermaid. 

FEBNANDE.    Poor  Jeannette,  she  is  incapable  of — 

MME.  MABECHAL.  It  is  not  the  first  time  that  your 
work  has  been  lost;  it  is  probable  that  she  makes  a 
business  of  it. 

BABONESS.  And  that  the  poor  old  woman  from 
whom  we  buy  them  is  a  receiver  of  stolen  goods. 
Another  deception  of  charity. 

MABECHAL.  That 's  very  serious.  Call  Jeannette ; 
I  want  to  question  her. 

FEBNANDE.  No,  father,  I  shall  explain  this  mys- 
tery to  you  later. 

MME.  MABECHAL.    Why  not  right  away? 

MABECHAL.    Send  for  Jeannette. 

FEBNANDE.  [Blushing  deeply.]  Well,  since  you 
compel  me,  I  must  tell  you  that  it  is  I  who  give  these 
trifles  to  old  Hardouin. 

MAXIMILIEN.    [Aside.]    So  I 

MME.  MABECHAL.  That's  no  reason  for  blushing 
as  you  do. 

BABONESS.  Why  was  she  compelled  to  show  her 
beautiful  soul  I 

FEBNANDE.  Such  things  are  ridiculous  when  they 
are  not  kept  secret. 

MME.  MABECHAL.    That's  romantic  charity. 

MABECHAL.  Haven't  you  money  enough  for  your 
charities? 

FEENANDE.  [With  tears  in  her  eyes.]  All  poor 
people  do  not  accept  charity.  That  old  woman  is 
proud,  she  is  accustomed  to  make  her  living  from 
her  needlework;  her  sight  is  failing  her,  I  help  out 


GIBOYER'S  SON  69 

her  eyes,  that's  all.  There  is  nothing  romantic  in 
that,  and  really  I  do  not  understand  why  you  should 
tease  me  about  it. 

MABECHAL.  Come,  calm  yourself,  there  is  no  harm 
done. 

MAXIMILIEN.    [Half  aloud.]    I  should  say  not. 

MAKECHAL.    Beg  your  pardon. 

MAXIMILIEN.  I  can  read  this  readily;  I'll  go  to 
work  on  it.  [Exit.] 

BABONESS.  Is  that  your  secretary?  Very  distin- 
guished looking.  Goodbye,  my  dear  Madame.  I'm 
very  sorry  to  have  foeen  the  cause  of  some  annoy* 
ance  for  Mademoiselle  Fernande.  I'm  going  to 
carry  the  cause  of  it  to  the  church  of  Saint-Thomas- 
d'Aquin,  and  you  may  rest  assured,  Mademoiselle, 
that  I  shall  not  reveal  your  share  in  the  collabora- 
tion. 

A  SERVANT.  [Announcing.]  Count  d'Outreville. 
[Enter  Count.] 

MAEECHAL.    Good  morning,  Count. 

COUNT.  [Without  seeing  the  Baroness.]  How  are 
the  ladies?  Their  appearance  answers  for  them. 
My  cousin  told  me  to  meet  him  here. 

MABECHAL.    Condorier? 

COUNT.  But  I  see  that  in  my  eagerness  I  came 
early. 

MME.  MABECHAL.    Very  gracious  of  you,  Count. 

BARONESS.    Goodbye,  my  dear  Madame. 

COUNT.  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Baroness,  I  had 
not  seen  you. 

BARONESS.  I  thought  that  you  did  not  recognize  me. 

COUNT.  [Drawing  near  the  mantelpiece.]  How 
can  you  believe  that  after  having  seen  you  once — ? 

BARONESS.  I  believe  it  the  more  that  in  Saint- 
Thomas-d'Aquin  you  were  not  twenty  chairs  away 
from  me  and  did  not  salute  me. 


70  GIBOYER'S  SON 

COUNT.  If  I  could  have  thought  that  you  did  me 
the  honor  of  recognizing  me — 

BARONESS.  Oh,  you  care  very  little  for  whatever 
honor  I  may  do  you.  I  did  you  the  honor  of  inviting 
vou  to  call  on  me  and  you  did  not  do  it.  Do  I 
frighten  you? 

COUNT.    Oh,  no. 

BARONESS.    Well,  try  to  deserve  forgiveness. 

A  SERVANT.    [Announcing.]    Marquis  d'Auberive! 

BARONESS.  [To  the  Marquis.]  This  time  I'll  run 
away;  I  would  have  too  many  reasons  to  scold  you, 
Marquis. 

MARQUIS.    And  why  so,  my  dear  Madame? 

BARONESS.  Your  cousin  will  tell  you — I'll  see  you 
tomorrow,  my  dear  Madame,  and  you  also,  my  dear. 
[Exit.] 

COUNT.    [Aside.]    She  did  recognize  me. 

MARECHAL.  What  grace !  What  ease  of  manners ! 
She's  at  home  everywhere. 

FERNANDE.  Yes,  it  is  we  who  seem  to  be  paying 
a  visit. 

MARQUIS.  What  I  admire  in  her,  especially,  is  her 
tact.  She  understood  that  I  had  to  talk  to  you  about 
various  matters  and  vacated.  My  dear  Fernande, 
will  you  go  and  see  if  she  has  left — 

FERNANDE.  And  do  not  come  back  to  tell  us 
about  it. 

MARQUIS.    It  would  be  useless.    [Exit  Fernande.] 

MME.  MARECHAL.    Am  I  also  in  the  way? 

MARQUIS.  On  the  contrary;  I  depend  on  you  to 
help  me,  but  let's  sit  down.  [They  sit  down.]  Mad- 
ame, you  have  never  shared  the  objection  my  friend 
Marechal  has,  to  marrying  Fernande  to  a  nobleman. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  I  haven't  the  same  motives  he 
has  for  fearing  an  aristocratic  alliance;  that  would 
not  be  going  out  of  my  sphere,  but  returning  to  it. 


GIBOYER'S  SON  71 

MAKECHAL.  This  objection  of  which  you  speak  was 
not  a  real  objection,  it  was  rather — how  should  I 
say? — exaggerated  modesty. 

MAEQUIS.  Which  I  might  have  understood  up  to 
a  certain  point  until  a  week  ago ;  but  to-day,  there  is 
not  a  nobleman  who  would  not  be  honored  by  an  alli- 
ance with  you ;  and  the  proof  of  it  is,  that  I  come  to 
ask  for  the  hand  of  my  ward  in  behalf  of  Count 
d'Outreville,  the  sole  heir  to  my  property  and  name. 

MAKECHAL.  Is  that  possible?  What,  Marquis,  you 
would  consent? 

MME.  MAEECHAL.  [Low  to  her  husband.]  Have 
some  dignity,  sir.  [Aloud.]  We  are  very  sensible, 
Marquis,  to  the  request  which  you  are  willing  to 
make;  but  we  must,  before  everything  else,  consult 
the  heart  of  our  dear  Fernande. 

MAKECHAL.    That's  so. 

MARQUIS.  Quite  right,  Madame;  but  could  it  not 
be  consulted  right  away!  Would  you  have  any  ob- 
jection to  my  cousin  presenting  his  request  to  Fer- 
nande in  person? 

MAEECHAL.  None,  whatsoever,  Marquis,  none  what- 
soever. 

MME.  MAEECHAL.  [In  a  low  voice.]  Why,  you 
throw  us  at  their  heads. 

MARQUIS.    And  you,  Madame. 

MME.  MAEECHAL.  I  think  that  it  is  quite  unconven- 
tional. 

MAEQUIS.  I  know  it,  but  cannot  etiquette  take  pity 
on  the  impatience  of  this  young  man?  [In  a  low 
voice  to  the  Count.]  Speak  up. 

COUNT.    [Coldly.]    I  beg  of  you,  Madame. 

MME.  MAEECHAL.    Since  everyone  insists. 

MAEECHAL.  Go  on !  Send  us  Fernande,  my  dear. 
[In  a  low  voice.]  And  tell  her  about  it. 


72  GIBOYER'S  SON 

MME.  MABECHAL.  Once  more,  I  find  all  this  very 
swift— but  I  yield.  [Exit.] 

MAEECHAL.  Now  that  my  wife  is  gone,  let  me  tell 
you  frankly,  my  dear  Marquis,  how  glad  and  proud 
I  am  of  your  proposed  alliance. 

COUNT.   I  am  the  one  to  be  congratulated,  sir. 

MAEECHAL.  I  intended  giving  her  eight  hundred 
thousand  francs  as  a  dowry;  I'll  give  her  a  round 
million. 

COUNT.  I  beg  of  you,  sir,  let  us  not  speak  of  these 
contemptible  things. 

MAEQUIS.  On  the  contrary,  let's  speak  of  them! 
For  the  time  being,  my  cousin  has  an  income  of  only 
about  ten  thousand  francs ;  but  I  have  an  income  of 
seventy  thousand,  which  I  shall  leave  him — as  late 
as  possible. 

MAEECHAL.  By  Jove,  there  is  a  hundred  thousand 
more  a  year  that  I  shall  offer  him  on  the  day  of  my 
funeral. 

MAEQUIS.  My  grand — your  grandchildren,  I  mean, 
will  be  well  off. 

MAEECHAL.  Why  correct  yourself,  my  dear  Con- 
dorier  f  Say,  our  grandchildren !  Aren't  they  going 
to  bear  your  name!  Zounds,  Marquis,  we  are  re- 
lated now, — at  least  on  the  women's  side. 

MABQUIS.  [Unthinkingly.]  We  were  before — 
through  our  opinions. 

MAEECHAL.  But  what  are  they  doing  out  there? 
I'll  wager  that  Madame  Marechal  keeps  us  waiting 
for  sheer  dignity. 

MAEQUIS.    Go  and  wake  them  up :  I'll  meet  you. 

MAEECHAL.  I  will.  [Stops  at  the  door  and  looks 
at  the  Count.']  What  a  fine  looking  man !  [Exit.] 

MAEQUIS.  See  here,  my  fine  fellow,  you  go  to  the 
altar  like  a  whipped  dog.  I  don't  want  to  be  the 


GIBOYER'S  SON  73 

cause  of  your  unhappiness.    If  the  bride  displeases 
you,  you  must  say  so. 

COUNT.    She  does  not  displease  me,  but — 

MARQUIS.  Speak  up,  speak  up,  don't  be  afraid! 
I  am  not  hard  up  for  an  heir.  Uno  avulso  non  deficit 
alter — to  speak  your  own  language,  I'll  make  up 
with  another  branch — with  the  Valtr avers.  I  am 
not  on  speaking  terms  with  them,  but  it  will  be  easy 
to  make  that  up — Aureus,  of  course ! 

COUNT.  In  Heaven's  name,  cousin,  do  not  lose 
your  temper. 

MARQUIS.  I'm  not  losing  my  temper,  sir.  I  am 
putting  you  at  ease.  It  is  clear  that  you  are  not 
enthusiastic  over  this  marriage. 

COUNT.    Yes,  yes,  Cousin,  I  am. 

MARQUIS.  Perhaps  you  don't  find  Fernande  a  fine 
enough  girl !  Try  to  do  as  well. 

COUNT.  But  if,  in  spite  of  my  good  will,  I  was 
unfortunate  enough  not  to  please  her? 

MARQUIS.  I  would  be  sorry  for  you ;  but  I  would 
summon  a  Valtr  aver.  Now,  you're  warned. 

COUNT.    Heavens,  what  a  situation! 

[Fernande  appears  in  the  door  to  the  left.] 

MARQUIS.     [Low  voice.]     Here  she  is,  I  leave  you. 

COUNT.  [In  a  low  voice.]  But,  I  don't  know 
where  to  begin. 

MARQUIS.  [In  a  low  voice.]  Nothing  hard  in 
that!  "Mademoiselle,  I  have  your  parents'  per- 
mission, but  it  is  your  own  consent  I  want."  [To 
Fernande.]  You  thought  you  would  find  your  step- 
mother here,  my  dear  child,  but  she  and  your  father 
have  abandoned  us,  and  I  am  going  to  ask  them 
why.  [Exit.] 

COUNT.  [Aside.]  The  head  is  fine,  but  how  dif- 
ferent from  the  divine  Pf eifers !  And  if  she  refuses 


74  GIBOYER'S  SON 

me,  I  am  ruined.  [Aloud.]  Mademoiselle,  have  you 
been  told  why? 

FERNANDE.    Yes,  sir. 

COUNT.  I  have  your  parents'  consent,  but  it  is 
your  own  consent  which  I  want.  This,  I  believe,  is 
a  sentiment  of  which  you  cannot  disapprove. 

FERNANDE.  It  is  a  delicate  and  prudent  senti- 
ment ;  for  I  am  not  of  those  who  are  married  with- 
out being  consulted.  We  do  not  know  each  other; 
suppose  that  in  order  to  become  acquainted,  we 
speak  with  entire  frankness  ? 

COUNT.  Willingly,  Mademoiselle;  frankness  is 
my  chief  quality. 

FERNANDE.  So  much  the  better ;  it  is  the  quality 
I  esteem  above  all  others.  Well,  why  do  you  want 
to  marry  me? 

COUNT.  Why,  because  I  was  not  able  to  see  you 
without — 

FERNANDE.  I  beg  your  pardon,  you  forget  our 
agreement  already.  We  have  met  three  times,  we 
have  exchanged  a  couple  of  phrases,  and  I  haven't 
enough  vanity  to  believe  that  that  was  sufficient  to 
turn  your  head. 

COUNT.  You  do  not  do  yourself  justice,  Mademoi- 
selle. 

FERNANDE.  How  hard  it  is  for  a  man  to  be  sin- 
cere !  I  would  add,  to  help  you  out,  that  if  you  mar- 
ried me  on  account  of  love,  I  would  believe  it  my 
duty  to  refuse;  for  there  would  be  between  us  an 
inequality  of  feelings  which  would  make  you  very 
unhappy  if  your  soul  has  any  delicacy. 

COUNT.  Well, — if  I  do  not  feel  what  the  world 
calls  love,  believe  me,  when  I  tell  you,  that  there  is 
in  me,  all  the  sentiments  which  a  husband  owes  to 
his  wife. 

FERNANDE.    Good !    But  these  sentiments  are  not 


GIBOYER'S  SON  75 

sufficiently  strong  to  urge  a  nobleman  to  a  mesal- 
liance. So  you  must  have  a  particular  reason.  I 
have  no  doubt  it  is  perfectly  honorable,  and  if  I 
care  about  knowing  it,  it  is  only  that  there  may  be 
no  shadow  of  suspicion  in  the  estimation  I  wish  to 
make  of  my  husband. — You  hesitate  to  answer? 

COUNT.  No,  Mademoiselle.  I  wish  to  marry  you 
through  deference  to  my  cousin's  wishes — a  defer- 
ence which  is  very  pleasing  to  me,  I  assure  you. 

FERNANDE.  I  ought  to  have  suspected  that :  since 
he  does  not  oppose  this  mesalliance,  it  is  because  he 
orders  it. 

COUNT.    He  has  for  you  an  affection  which — 

FEENANDE.  He  is  alone  in  the  world,  I  am  his 
ward,  and  his  heart  clings  to  this  bond,  slight  as  it 
may  be.  Go  and  tell  him,  sir,  that  I  shall  do  as  he 
wishes. 

COUNT.    How  grateful  I  am,  Mademoiselle ! 

FEENANDE.  You  owe  me  no  gratitude;  I  accept 
a  name  honorably  offered — and  I  promise  you  to 
bear  it  worthily. 

COUNT.  And  I  assure  you  that,  notwithstanding 
— but  you're  right ;  I  will  go  and  gladden  my  cousin 
with  this  happy  news.  [Exit.'] 

FEENANDE.  [After  a  pause.]  After  all,  he  will 
do  as  well  as  another!  To  leave  this  house,  that's 
the  chief  thing — poor  father ! 

MAXIMILIEN.  [Entering  with  manuscript  in  his 
hand.}  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mademoiselle,  I  thought 
I  would  find  your  father  here. 

FEENANDE.  [Going  to  sit  down  at  her  frame.]  I 
believe  he  is  in  the  parlor ;  but  I  doubt  whether  you 
can  speak  to  him ;  he  is  busy. 

MAXIMILIEN.  [Aside.]  Never  mind,  I'll  leave  the 
word  blank — peculiar  girl!  [Puts  his  manuscript 
on  the  mantelpiece,  picks  up  the  skein  of  wool  and 


76  GIBOYER'S  SON 

comes  down  to  Fernande.]  Here  is  your  blue  skein, 
Mademoiselle. — What  have  I  done  to  you?  And 
why  do  you  treat  me  so  harshly?  As  long  as  I  was 
able  to  consider  you  as  a  parlor  butterfly,  I  thought 
myself  far  above  your  scorn  and  did  not  care  about 
it ;  but  she  who  lends  her  eyes  to  old  Hardouin  does 
not  scorn  anyone's  poverty,  and  I  come  to  ask  you 
frankly  why  I  have  lost  your  esteem? 

FEBNANDE.  [Without  raising  her  eyes  from  her 
work.]  I'm  sorry  that  you  should  be  shocked  by 
my  behavior  toward  you.  It  is  the  same  I  main- 
tained toward  your  predecessors,  and  it  did  not 
harm  their  advancement. 

MAXIMILIEN.    Is  that  all  you  have  to  answer  me? 

FEBNANDE.    That's  all. 

MAXIMILIEN.  Eeally,  Mademoiselle,  were  I  the 
most  contemptible  of  men,  you  would  not  treat  me 
otherwise. 

FEBNANDE.     [Rising.]     Good-bye,  sir. 

MAXIMILIEN.  [Stepping  between  her  and  the 
door.]  No,  Mademoiselle,  no !  You  shall  not  leave 
me  thus.  I  read  profound  contempt  in  your  eyes. 
I  demand  now  the  explanation  I  was  asking  for. 

FERNANDE.  [Haughtily.]  You  know  full  well 
that  I  cannot  give  it  to  you. 

MAXIMILIEN.  I  swear  to  you  that  I  do  not  know 
anything,  that  I  do  not  understand,  except  this: 
that  my  honor  is  suspected.  Answer  me,  I  beg  of 
you.  Who  slandered  me  ?  Of  what  am  I  accused  ? 

FEBNANDE.  Of  nothing,  sir;  let  us  stop  this,  I 
pray. 

MAXIMILIEN.  Come,  Mademoiselle,  you  are  kind, 
you  use  your  heart  in  your  charitable  work;  take 
pity  on  my  suspense.  What  I  hold  dearest  is  at 
stake. 

FEBNANDE.    What  do  you  mean  by  this  comedy? 


GIBOYER'S  SON  77 

Do  you  hope  to  make  me  tell  what  I  blush  to  know? 
Let  me  pass ! 

MAXIMILIEN.  You  do  not  say  a  word  that  is  not 
a  stab !  On  my  bended  knee,  I  entreat  you. 

FERNANDE.    Keep  that  for — 

MAXIMILIEN.     For  whom? 

FERNANDE.    For  your  career.    [She  passes  him.] 

MAXIMILIEN.  Ah,  I  understand !  [Fernande  stops 
on  the  threshold.]  There  were  contemptible  men 
here  before  me — and  you  judge  me  like  them!  It 
will  not  take  me  long  to  justify  myself,  and  your 
suspicion  will  cause  you  to  lower  your  eyes,  and 
not  I.  I  pity  you — I  pity  you  more  than  you  insulted 
me,  poor  young  girl,  who  have  lost  the  blessed  igno- 
rance of  evil. 

[Enter  Marechal  and  the  Marquis.] 

MAEECHAL.  Well,  M.  Gerard,  is  that  the  way  you 
do  your  work? 

MAXIMILIEN.  I  was  requesting  Mademoiselle  to 
transmit  to  you  a  communication  somewhat  trying 
to  me :  my  resignation. 

MARECHAL.  What's  that!  Your  resignation?  I 
don't  accept  it!  You  leave  me  in  the  lurch  just 
when  I  need  you. 

MARQUIS.     You  can't  do  that,  my  dear  fellow. 

MAXIMILIEN.  I  did  not  express  myself  correctly, 
sir.  I  am  not  a  man  to  repay  your  kindness  by  leav- 
ing you  in  the  lurch.  Only  I  wanted  to  request  you 
to  look  for  my  successor.  I  shall  stay  until  you  have 
found  him. 

MARECHAL.  It's  very  annoying!  I  was  getting 
accustomed  to  you.  I  hate  new  faces. 

MARQUIS.  What  notion  has  gotten  into  your 
head? 

MARECHAL.    Do  they  offer  you  a  better  place? 

MAXIMILIEN.    No,  sir,  if  I  leave  your  service,  it 


78  GIBOYER'S  SON 

is  to  work  for  myself.  I  am  accustomed  to  depend 
upon  my  own  work,  and  I  feel  incapable  of  enduring 
constraint. 

MARECHAL.  Your  work!  But  confound  it,  you 
confessed  to  me  that  before  entering  my  service 
you  were  doing  literary  hack  work  at  thirty  francs 
a  page,  small  text. 

MAXIMILIEN.    Small  text,  yes,  sir. 

MARECHAL.  And  you  want  to  start  that  starvation 
business  again? 

FERNANDE.  [Aside.]  I  took  his  bread  away  from 
him. 

MARECHAL.    Why,  this  is  absurd. 

MAXIMILIEN.  Remember  the  fable  of  the  wolf  and 
the  dog. 

MARECHAL.  Are  you  treated  like  a  dog  here? 
Any  lack  of  consideration  ? 

MAXIMILIEN.  On  the  contrary,  sir;  but,  through 
a  peculiarity  of  my  mind,  which  I  am  not  able  to 
control,  every  care  taken  here  to  make  me  forget 
the  inferiority  of  my  position  only  serves  to  recall 
it  to  my  mind.  It  is  unjust  and  ridiculous,  I  know 
it.  I  accuse  only  myself,  but  I  cannot  stand  it,  and 
I  shall  leave.  [Exit  Fernande.] 

MARQUIS.  [Aside.]  There  is  something  else  be- 
neath that. 

MARECHAL.  You're  too  proud!  What  do  you 
want  me  to  do?  I  can't  keep  you  by  force. 

MARQUIS.  [In  a  low  voice  to  Marechal.]  Let  me 
speak  to  him. 

MARECHAL.    Do.    [Exit  at  right.] 

MARQUIS.    Now,  my  dear  fellow,  what's  up? 

MAXIMILIEN.  You  should  have  warned  me,  Mar- 
quis, that  I  came  here  to  be  Madame  Marechal 's 
swain. 

MARQUIS.    There's  the  rub,  ah?    The  good  dame 


GIBOYER'8  SON  79 

is  making  eyes  at  you?  Beassure  yourself:  she  shall 
not  compel  you  to  leave  your  cloak  in  her  hands. 
She  is  romantic,  but  platonic.  Her  hero  does  not 
need  to  share  in  the  romance;  she'll  do  it  all.  She 
persuades  herself  that  she  is  loved,  has  terrific 
struggles  with  herself,  and  finally  triumphs  over 
the  imaginary  danger  by  dismissing  the  seducer 
after  securing  a  good  berth  for  him.  You  see  that 
you  may  remain. 

MAXIMILIEN.  This  excuses  Madame  Marechal  to 
a  certain  extent,  but  not  the  wretch  who  exploits 
her  weakness.  Should  I  meet  one  of  my  predeces- 
sors, I  would  not  salute  him,  even  after  your  expla- 
nation. 

MAEQUIS.    You're  proud. 

MAXIMILIEN.    Do  you  blame  me  for  it? 

MAEQUIS.    No,  indeed. 

MAXIMILIEN.  By  consenting  to  remain  a  few  days 
in  this  intolerable  position,  I  believe  I  am  doing  all 
I  owe  to  you  and  to  M.  Marechal.  Do  not  ask  me 
to  do  more. 

MAEQUIS.    I  have  nothing  to  say. 

MAXIMILIEN.  I'll  go  back  to  the  library  and  shall 
not  leave  it  until  the  arrival  of  my  successor.  [Exit.] 

MAEQUIS.  The  little  bastard  deserves  to  be  a 
nobleman.  [Exit.] 

[CUETAIN.] 


ACT  III. 

[Marechal's  library — one  single  door  at  the  back — 
on  the  left  a  desk  with  its  back  to  the  public;  cen- 
ter, a  little  to  the  right,  an  armchair  and  a  small 
table.} 

MARECHAL.  [Alone.  Stands  behind  the  arm- 
chair as  if  on  the  rostrum;  on  the  table  near  him 
a  glass  of  water.  He  takes  a  drink.]  "And  you 
may  rest  assured,  gentlemen,  that  the  only  solid 
basis  in  politics  and  in  morals  is  faith!  We  must 
not  teach  the  people  the  rights  of  man,  but  the 
rights  of  God ;  for  dangerous  truths  are  not  truths. 
The  divine  institution  of  authority  is  the  first  and 
last  word  of  primary  instruction."  [Comes  down 
stage  with  his  manuscript  in  his  hand.}  There,  I 
have  got  my  first  part  pat.  Not  without  trouble; 
my  memory  is  as  restive  as  can  be.  Subordinate 
faculty,  memory !  "Well,  I  shall  recite  it.  My  speech 
is  magnificent.  I  would  like  to  know  who  wrote  it, 
so  I  could  order  the  next  one  from  him.  I  don't 
know  whether  it  will  produce  the  same  effect  in 
the  chamber  as  it  did  upon  me,  but  it  seems  irrefuta- 
ble to  me ;  it  makes  me  stronger  in  my  convictions, 
it  lifts  me  up !  What  a  beautiful  thing  eloquence  is ! 
I  was  born  to  be  an  orator ;  I  have  the  voice  and  the 
gestures ;  those  are  gifts  which  cannot  be  acquired. 
The  rest — [Looking  at  his  manuscript.] — can  be  ac- 
quired.— This  fellow  Gerard  doesn't  get  through 
with  his  breakfast.  I'd  like  to  have  the  end  of  my 
speech — I  haven't  got  too  much  time  to  learn  it  be- 
tween now  and  to-morrow.  Don't  eat  at  my  table 
any  more  if  it  humiliates  you,  my  dear  friend,  but 
don't  rob  me  of  an  hour  after  each  meal:  my  time 

80 


GIBOYER'S  SON  81 

is  precious.  His  great  love  of  independence  is  the 
need  of  smoking  while  he  is  digesting,  that's  all! 
Society  is  no  more  possible  with  the  advent  of  the 
cigar.  Everything  is  connected :  bad  manners  bring 
bad  morals ;  and  if  you  look  closely,  gentlemen,  you 
will  see  that  the  road  of  revolution  is  strewn  with 
remnants  of  conventionalities. — Why!  I  am  impro- 
vising now ! 

[Enter  Maximilien.~\ 

MAEECHAL.  "Well,  young  man,  did  you  breakfast 
better  at  the  restaurant  than  in  my  house?  At  any 
rate,  it  took  longer. 

MAXIMILIEN.  I  have  only  a  few  pages  more  of 
your  speech  to  copy.  I  shall  be  through  in  an  hour. 

MAEECHAL.  Give  me  what  you  have  done,  any- 
way, so  that  I  can  study  it. 

MAXIMILIEN.  [Taking  the  sheet  from  the  desk 
drawer.]  Here  you  are,  sir.  I  took  the  liberty  of 
adding  a  few  words  necessary  to  the  grammatical 
construction  and  which  evidently  remained  at  the 
end  of  your  pen. 

MAEECHAL.    I  scribble  so  rapidly. 

MAXIMILIEN.  Others  were  illegible;  I  put  them 
in  according  to  the  sense  of  the  sentence. 

MAEECHAL.  I  see  with  pleasure  that  you're  famil- 
iar with  the  secrets  of  the  language. 

MAXIMILIEN.    They  are  not  secrets  for  anyone. 

MAEECHAL.  Aren't  they?  You're  a  man  of  merit, 
my  dear  Gerard ;  frankly,  between  you  and  me,  what 
do  you  think  of  my  speech? 

MAXIMILIEN.  It  disturbs  me  greatly,  sir;  it  irri- 
tates me. 

MAEECHAL.    It  irritates  you? 

MAXIMILIEN.  Like  all  reasoning,  against  which 
you  have  no  answer,  and  yet  is  refuted  by  an  inti- 
mate feeling. 


82  GIBOYER'S  SON 

MARECHAL.  You  admit  that  there  is  no  answer? 
That's  enough  for  me. 

MAXIMILIEN.  The  second  part  especially  is  very 
forceful. 

MAEECHAL.    Ah — yes. 

MAXIMILIEBT.  I  admit  that  I  must  gather  my 
thoughts  to  be  able  to  defend  myself  against  such 
sharp  attack. 

MARECHAL.  You  delight  me.  I  believe  I  shall  pro- 
duce a  great  sensation.  I  am  going  to  finish  learn- 
ing it  by  heart,  for  a  read  speech  is  always  cold. 
Bring  the  end  to  my  room,  please,  and  if  you  are 
willing,  we'll  have  a  rehearsal  during  which  you  will 
simulate  interruptions  to  accustom  my  memory  to 
the  tumult  of  the  assembly. 

MAXIMILIEN.  At  your  service.  [Exit  Marechal.] 
It  is  true,  I  am  troubled  and  irritated.  I  am  troubled 
because  I  feel  the  whole  structure  of  my  ideas 
shaken.  But  why  should  I  be  irritated?  Against 
what!  Against  the  truth?  That's  too  silly!  And 
yet  it  is  so!  My  reason  is  following  a  path  which 
I  refuse  to  follow.  It  seems  to  me  that  it  is  going 
over  to  the  enemy — the  enemy !  Have  I  any  hatred 
against  anyone?  No;  not  even  against  this  yonng 
girl, — what  a  singular  product  of  civilization,  this 
pure  brow,  these  limpid  eyes  and  a  wilted  soul !  And 
I  was  on  the  point  of  looking  upon  her  as  upon  an 
angel,  because  of  the  old  Hardouin !  Ah,  Mademoi- 
selle, you  pamper  poverty,  which  kneels  down  and 
whines,  but  you  insult  poverty  that  stands  up  silent ! 
Your  poor  people  are  your  charity  playthings! 
Really,  I  hate  you!  [Enter  Madame  Marechal  with 
a  book  in  her  hand.]  The  other  one  now! 

MME.  MARECHAL.  I  bring  back  "  Jocelyn."  [Maxi- 
milien  bows,  sits  down  at  the  desk  and  begins  to 


GIBOYER'S  SON  83 

write.  Madame  Marechal  puts  the  book  back  in  the 
bookcase.  A  pause.] 

MME.  MARECHAL.  I  haven't  seen  you  since  yes- 
terday, M.  Maximilien.  I  have  learned  through  my 
husband  that  you  are  leaving. 

MAXIMILIEN.    Yes,  Madam. 

MME.  MAKECHAL.  And  is  the  reason  you  gave  to 
M.  Marechal  the  real  reason? 

MAXIMILIEN.    Undoubtedly. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  So  much  the  better!  I  was 
afraid  lest  my  step-daughter  had  wounded  you  in 
some  way. 

MAXIMILIEN.    No,  Madame. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  Then  you  do  not  go  away 
angry?  You  will  not  altogether  forget  that  this 
house  has  been  yours  for  a  few  days?  The  secre- 
tary leaves  us,  but  the  friend  will  come  back? 

MAXIMILIEN.     Certainly,  Madame. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  I  wanted  to  hear  you  say  this, 
for  I  have  a  true  friendship  for  you,  M.  Maximilien. 

MAXIMILIEN.    You  are  too  kind,  Madame. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  This  is  not  a  banal  assertion, 
you  may  be  sure.  I  hope  you  will  put  it  to  a  test 
some  day. 

MAXIMILIEN.    Never ! 

MME.  MARECHAL.  Why  never?  Does  your  pride 
refuse  to  owe  anything  to  an  almost  maternal  affec- 
tion? 

MAXIMILIEN.  Let  us  forget  this  impossible  mater- 
nity, Madame. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  [Lowering  her  eyes.]  May  not 
I  be  at  least  your  older  sister? 

MAXIMILIEN.  No,  Madame,  no  more  my  sister 
than  my  mother. 

MME.  MARECHAL.     [In  a  weak  voice."]    What  then? 

MAXIMILIEN.    Nothing.   [A  pause.] 


84  GIBOYER'S  SON 

MME.  MABECHAL.  Yes,  you  are  right ;  everything 
parts  us.  I  was  mad  to  ask  you  to  come  back;  do 
not  see  me  any  more.  I  understand  now  why  you 
leave.  You're  an  honest  man.  I  thank  you. 

MAXIMILIEN.  [Aside.]  If  she  understood !  [Enter 
Fernande.  Maximilien,  aside.'}  Again.  [He  begins 
to  write  again.] 

FEENANDE.  [To  Madame  Marechal.]  I  come  for 
a  book. 

MME.  MABECHAL.    What  book? 

FEENANDE.  I  don't  know.  I  am  idling;  I  would 
like  to  read.  Advise  me,  M.  Maximilien, — something 
that  might  interest  me.  [Maximilien  rises  and  goes 
to  the  bookcase. — Aside.]  I  had  hoped  to  find  him 
alone.  [Maximilien  gives  her  a  book,  bows  and 
returns  to  his  desk. — Opening  the  book.]  The  direct- 
ory of  nobility.  Is  that  an  epigram?  I  do  not  de- 
serve it.  I  have  no  more  pretension  to  nobility  than 
you  have.  [Giving  the  book  to  Madame  Marechal.] 
Here,  Madame. 

MME.  MABECHAL.  If  I  have  pretensions,  my  dear, 
they  are  well  founded. 

FEBNANDE.  I  do  not  doubt  it. — Give  me  some- 
thing else,  M.  Maximilien. — What  you  would  give  to 
your  sister. 

MAXIMILIEN.  [Aside  and  rising.]  She  also! — 
Too  many  relations. 

MME.  MAEECHAL.  [Aside.]  How  gracious  she  is 
to  him ! 

A  SEBVANT.  Count  d'Outreville  asks  if  the  ladies 
receive. 

MAXIMILIEN.  [Aside.]  Now,  they'll  leave  me 
alone.  [Sits  down  at  his  desk.] 

FEENANDE.  Will  you  go  and  receive  him,  Madame  I 

MME.  MAEECHAL.    He  asks  to  see  both  of  us. 


GIBOTER'S  SON  85 

FERNANDE.  I  do  not  feel  quite  myself;  will  you 
excuse  me? 

MME.  MARECHAL.  [Aside.]  One  would  think  she 
wishes  to  stay  alone  with  Maximilien.  [To  the  serv- 
ant.] Bring  the  Count  here. 

COUNT.  [Entering.]  Excuse  me,  ladies,  for  call- 
ing so  early.  This  letter  from  M.  d'Auberive  will 
explain  to  you  the  irregularity  of  my  conduct. 

MAXIMILIEN.  [Aside.]  This  young  Count  seems 
as  sterling — as  a  game  counter. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  [Reading  the  letter.]  Your 
cousin  asks  me,  sir,  to  guide  you  in  the  purchase  of 
the  bridal  gift. 

COUNT.  He  is  himself  attending  to  the  publica- 
tion of  the  banns. 

FEBNANDE.    Already  ? 

COUNT.  He  does  not  wish  to  give  you  time  to 
reflect,  Mademoiselle. 

FERNANDE.    This  is  not  polite  to  you,  Count. 

COUNT.    He  realizes  my  small  merit. 

MAXIMILIEN.  [Aside.]  And  she  marries  this 
parchment?  That  caps  the  climax. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  M.  d'Auberive  makes  mar- 
riages as  Bonaparte  made  war.  I'll  put  on  a  shawl 
and  a  hat  and  go  with  you.  [Aside.]  I  am  not  sorry 
that  Maximilien  should  learn  the  news.  [Exit.] 

MAXIMILIEN.  [Aside.]  Am  I  going  to  witness 
their  idyl?  To  witness  their  idyl  like  a  King 
Charles? 

COUNT.  Allow  me,  Mademoiselle,  to  take  advan- 
tage of  these  few  moments.  [Maximilien  coughs.] 
IWe  are  not  alone? 

FERNANDE.    My  father's  secretary,  M.  Gerard. 

COUNT.  I  would  be  delighted  to  make  his  ac- 
quaintance ;  be  kind  enough  to  introduce  him  to  me. 

FERNANDE.     [To    Maximilien.]     M.    Maximilien, 


86  GIBOYER'S  SON 

let  me  introduce  to  you  Count  d'Outreville,  my 
betrothed. 

COUNT.     [Aside.]     Why,  she  is  introducing  me. 

MAXIMILIEN.  Sir — 

COUNT.  Delighted,  sir.  [Aside.]  I  don't  like 
him.  [A  pause. — To  Fernande.]  I  was  told  that 
M.  Marechal  did  not  receive.  Is  he  ill? 

FERNANDE.  He  shut  himself  up  in  order  to  work ; 
isn't  that  right,  M.  Maximilien? 

MAXIMILIEN.  [At  his  desk.]  Yes,  Mademoiselle. 
[A  pause.] 

COUNT.  I  spent  a  charming  morning,  last  Sun- 
day. I  heard,  at  the  Madeleine,  a  musical  Mass 
sung  by  the  singers  of  your  leading  theatres.  The 
organ  was  played  by  an  artiste. 

FEBNANDE.    Do  you  like  music? 

COUNT.  Yes,  indeed.  I  also  noticed  with  pleas- 
ure that  the  church  was  heated. 

FEBNANDE.    Yes ;  our  piety  loves  its  ease. 

COUNT.  It  should  have  it.  For  that  reason,  the 
church  was  full — in  Paris!  This  recrudescence  of 
public  devotion  is  a  consoling  spectacle. 

FEBNANDE.  .What  do  you  think  of  it,  M.  Maxi- 
milien! 

MAXIMILIEN.  I  am  very  glad  that  it  should  afford 
consolation  to  Monsieur.  As  for  me,  I  did  not  need 
consolation ;  I  am  very  philosophical. 

COUNT.  Do  you  mean  by  that  that  you  are  not  a 
Christian  I 

MAXIMILIEN.  I  am  one,  sir.  So  much  so  that  I 
practice  forgiveness  of  offense. 

FEBNANDE.     Forgiveness  or  disdain? 

MAXIMILIEN.    Both. 

FEBNANDE.  Without  making  any  difference  be- 
tween repentance  and  obduracy? 

MAXIMILIEN.    I'm  not  particular. 


GIBOYER'S  SON  87 

FERNANDE.    You  are  unjust,  Monsieur. 

MAXIMILIEN.  Possibly,  Mademoiselle;  but  you 
know  more  than  I  do  about  all  things. 

FERNANDE.  [Arising,  with  emotion.']  It  takes 
my  stepmother  a  long  time ;  I  will  hurry  her.  [Exit.] 

COUNT.  [Aside.]  There  seems  to  be  a  pique  be- 
tween them.  [Aloud.]  Have  you  been  long  in  the 
house? 

MAXIMILIEN.    No,  and  I  shall  not  stay. 

COUNT.    I  regret  that,  since  I  enter  it. 

MAXIMILIEN.    Too  kind  of  you. 

COUNT.    I  hope  I'm  not  driving  you  away? 

MAXIMILIEN.    How  could  you? 

COUNT.  Oh,  you  know,  that's  what  people  say, 
when  somebody  leaves  as  you  enter. 

MAXIMILIEN.  Excuse  me;  I  have  just  finished 
some  work  which  M.  Marechal  is  waiting  for,  and 
I  shall  take  it  to  him.  [Bows  and  leaves.] 

COUNT.  Hm !  Does  my  marriage  interrupt  a  lit- 
tle romance  ?  I  am  more  distrustful  than  I  look.  A 
gentleman  who  does  not  need  to  be  consoled,  prac- 
tices forgiveness,  and  leaves  his  place  just  when 
Mademoiselle  Fernande  is  about  to  marry. — She 
was  as  red  as  a  cherry  when  she  left  the  room,  after 
a  word  which  probably  had  a  double  meaning !  Hm ! 
I  don't  like  that.  I  shall  speak  of  it  to  the  Mar- 
quis. [A  servant  introduces  the  Baroness. — Aside.] 
Heavens,  the  Baroness! 

BARONESS.  You,  Count?  And  alone?  !Why  was 
I  brought  here? 

COUNT.  The  ladies  were  here  a  moment  ago,  and 
will  return. 

BARONESS.  Good !  And  M.  Marechal  is  not  to  be 
seen? 

COUNT.    I  am  told  that  he  is  at  work. 

BARONESS.    Goodness  gracious,  at  what? 


88  GIBOYER'S  SON 

COUNT.    Probably  on  his  speech. 

BAKONESS.  I  thought  it  was  done.  That's  why  I 
come.  I  hope  that  Madame  Marechal  will  help  me 
to  force  the  door  which  conceals  her  husband  from 
mortal  eyes. 

COUNT.    I  do  not  doubt  it. 

BARONESS.  Neither  do  I.  [Aside.]  He  is  price- 
lessly  candid.  [Aloud  and  sitting  down.]  Heaven 
has  put  you  in  my  way  three  times  within  a  few 
days.  Doesn't  it  seem  to  indicate  that  there  is  a 
will  which  wishes  us  to  become  acquainted! 

COUNT.    It  seems  like  it. 

BARONESS.  Perhaps  something  fortunate  for  our 
cause  will  result  from  our  meeting.  I  feel  it  will, 
don't  you? 

COUNT.  It  would  be  very  glorious  for  me,  Mad- 
ame. 

BARONESS.  Yon  have  upon  your  brow  the  sign  of 
the  elect. 

COUNT.    You  are  too  kind. 

BARONESS.  Heaven  willingly  makes  use  of  pure 
hands.  Celibacy  is  a  great  virtue,  you  know. 

COUNT.    Alas,  I'm  going  to  marry. 

BARONESS.    Marry? 

COUNT.    Yes,  Madame, — Mademoiselle  Fernande. 

BARONESS.  [More  coldly.]  Salvation  may  also  be 
achieved  by  marriage.  My  compliments,  Count. 
Your  intended  is  charming,  and  justifies  the  violence 
of  your  passion. 

COUNT.    The  violence? 

BARONESS.  I  thought  only  a  violent  passion  could 
excuse — 

COUNT.  Isn't  the  political  attitude  of  M.  Marechal 
a  sort  of  nobility?  I  do  not  believe  I  am  marrying 
below  my  rank  when  allying  myself  with  our  cham- 
pion. 


GIBOYER'S  SON  89 

BARONESS.  [Aside.]  Ah,  ah,  M.  d'Auberive!  This 
is  good  to  know.  [Aloud.]  Then  this  is  a  marriage 
of  convenience1? 

COUNT.    Yes,  Madame.    My  cousin  wishes  it. 

BARONESS.  Very  good.  I  really  do  not  know  why 
I  should  interfere,  and  you  must  find  mef  very  indis- 
creet. Lay  it  to  a  sympathy  which  is  perhaps  rash ; 
but  when  I  saw  you  I  thought  a  friend  was  coming 
to  me.  [Offering  him  her  hand.]  Was  I  mistaken! 

COUNT.    Oh,  Madame!    [Kisses  her  hand.] 

BARONESS.  [Pulling  back  her  hand  with  a  smile.] 
No,  I  was  not  asking  you  for  everyday  gallantry. 
This  little  woman's  hand  is  worthy  of  being  shaken; 
verily,  you  will  find  that  out  some  day.  You  are 
looking  at  my  bracelet? 

COUNT.    Your? — Yes — 

BARONESS.  [Unclasping  the  bracelet  and  giving  it 
to  him.]  It's  rather  curious  workmanship. 

COUNT.    Very  curious. 

BARONESS.  Especially  the  medallion.  It  contains 
a  lock  of  my  husband's  hair. 

COUNT.    What,  this  white  hair? 

BARONESS.  My  life  was  austere,  Count.  At  the 
age  of  seventeen  I  married  an  old  man  to  fulfill  the 
last  wishes  of  my  benefactress. 

COUNT.    Your  benefactress? 

BARONESS.  Orphaned  at  birth,  without  fortune,  I 
had  been  adopted  by  a  distant  relative,  the  dowager 
Pfeffers,  an  angelic  creature,  who  brought  me  up  as 
her  daughter.  When  she  felt  the  end  was  coming, 
she  called  to  her  bedside  her  son,  Baron  Pfeffers, 
who  was  then  sixty  years  old,  and  taking  the  hand 
of  each  of  us  within  her  failing  hands,  she  said, 
'  *  My  death  will  take  away  your  only  friend ;  promise 
me  to  unite  your  two  lonelinesses  and  I  shall  die 
happy.  Oh,  my  son,  I  trust  her  childhood  to  your 


90  GIBOYER'S  SON 

old  age,  and  your  old  age  to  her  childhood.  It  is  not 
a  husband  I  am  giving  you,"  she  added,  turning  to- 
wards me,  "but  a  father!" 

COUNT.  [With  great  emotion.]  And  he  was  a 
father  to  you? 

BARONESS.  The  most  respectful  of  fathers.  But 
I  do  not  know  why  I  mention  these  remembrances  to 
you — give  me  back  my  bracelet. 

COUNT.    [Aside.]    She  is  an  angel. 

BARONESS.  Heavens,  how  awkward  one  is  with  one 
hand!  Come  to  my  rescue,  Count!  [She  offers  her 
arm  to  the  Count,  who  tries  to  fasten  the  bracelet.] 
You  are  not  more  clever  than  I  am.  Let  us  see  if  we 
can  do  it  with  three  hands.  [She  helps  the  Count. 
Their  eyes  meet,  Count  turns  his  eyes  away.  Aside.] 
Poor  fellow!  Let  anyone  tell  him  stories  about  me 
now,  he'll  have  a  fine  reception.  [Aloud.]  Shall  you 
accompany  your  betrothed  to  my  house  this  evening? 

COUNT.    My  betrothed? 

BARONESS.  I  want  you  to — I  have  never  been 
happy,  but  I  love  other  people's  happiness.  The 
beginning  of  pure  love  in  a  young  soul  must  be 
charming.  I  am  sure  Mademoiselle  Fernande  adores 
you. 

COUNT.    If  she  loves  anyone — 

BARONESS.    It  is  not  you?    Who  then? 

COUNT.  [Collecting  himself.]  No  one.  I  mean  to 
say  that  she  marries  me  in  order  to  get  married. 

BARONESS.  [Aside.]  There  is  someone.  I '11  know 
who?  [Aloud.]  And  when  will  the  marriage  take 
place? 

COUNT.  [Sadly.]  The  first  banns  will  be  published 
to-morrow,  and  I  am  going  out  to  buy  the  bridal  gift? 

BARONESS.  [Aside.]  Marriages  have  fallen 
through  even  after  that.  [Aloud.]  I  have  to  con- 


GIBOYER'S  SON  91 

gratulate  you.  [Enter  Madame  Marechal  in  stun- 
ning street  costume.] 

MME.  MAEECHAL«.  My  excuses,  my  4ear  Baroness. 
I  have  just  been  told  that  you  were  here. 

BARONESS.  In  very  good  company,  as  you  see, 
Madame.  But  you  were  going  out,  and  I  do  not  wish 
to  detain  you. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  Oh,  I  beg  of  you,  there  is  no 
haste. 

BARONESS.  I  must  confess  to  you  that  my  visit 
was  not  for  you.  I  have  a  communication  to  impart 
to  M.  Marechal.  Be  kind  enough  to  have  the  door 
of  the  sanctuary  to  which  he  has  withdrawn  opened 
for  me. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  What?  Did  not  all  doors  fly 
open  before  you  ? 

BARONESS.  The  servant  mentioned  his  orders  and 
I  did  not  insist.  [Enter  Maximilien.] 

MME.  MARECHAL.  What  is  my  husband  doing,  M. 
Gerard,  that  he  should  forbid  his  door? 

BARONESS.  [Aside.]  The  secretary!  Could  it 
be  he? 

MAXIMILIEN.  I  believe,  Madame,  that  he  is  com- 
mitting his  speech  to  memory. 

BARONESS.    Does  he  intend  to  speak  it? 

MAXIMILIEN.    Yes,  Madame. 

BARONESS.  [To  Madame  Marechal.]  Then  I  will 
have  very  little  to  say  to  him;  I'll  just  put  my  head 
in.  By  the  way,  you  did  not  forget  your  promise  for 
this  evening? 

MME.  MARECHAL.  Such  things  are  not  to  be  for- 
gotten. 

BARONESS.  If  M.  Gerard  has  nothing  better  to  do, 
I  would  delight  in  receiving  him  also. 

MAXIMILIEN.    Me,  Madame? 


92  GIBOYER'S  SON 

COUNT.  [Aside.]  What  need  had  she  to  invite 
that  fellow? 

BARONESS.  At  your  age  it  is  pleasant  to  meet  illus- 
trious men  at  close  range.  There  will  be  several  in 
my  parlors. 

MAXIMILIEN.    I  am  very  thankful  to  you,  Madame. 

BAKONESS.  You'll  come,  won't  you?  [To  Madame 
MarechaL]  Will  you  show  me  the  way,  Madame? 

MME.  MARECHAL.    I  will.    [Exit.] 

BARONESS.  [In  a  low  voice  to  the  Count,  indicating 
Maximilien.]  A  very  nice  young  man. 

COUNT.    I  hadn't  noticed. 

BARONESS.  [Aside.]  It  is  he.  [Exeunt,  Baroness 
and  Count.] 

MAXIMILIEN.  [Alone.]  Oh,  no,  I  won't  spend  my 
evening  at  the  Baroness*.  I  will  spend  it  with  my 
old  Giboyer.  [Taking  his  hat  from  the  desk.]  I 
need  to  relieve  my  heart.  The  few  words  of  excuse 
from  this  patrician  wounded  me  more  than  her  in- 
sults. She  thought  she  was  doing  things  grandly, 
and  that  a  half  apology  was  quite  enough  for  a  poor 
devil  like  me!  Let's  go  to  Giboyer. 

FERNANDE.  [Entering.]  I  must  speak  to  you, 
Monsieur. 

MAXIMILIEN.    To  me,  Mademoiselle? 

FERNANDE.  Did  you  not  expect  it?  Did  you  not 
understand  by  all  I  have  done  and  all  I  have  said 
since  this  morning,  my  deep  regret  for  what  hap- 
pened yesterday? 

MAXIMILIEN.  Your  regret?  You're  doing  me  too 
great  an  honor? 

FERNANDE.  It  is  not  enough,  I  know  it.  There  are 
offences  which  demand  as  complete  an  atonement 
from  a  woman  as  from  a  man.  I  slandered  you  in 
thought ;  I  beg  your  pardon.  Is  that  enough? 

MAXIMILIEN.    I  thank  you. 


GIBOYER'S  SON  93 

FEKNANDE.  Thank  me  by  remaining  with  my 
father. 

MAXIMIUEN.  As  to  that — impossible,  Mademoi- 
selle. 

FEENANDE.  You  do  not  wish  me  to  believe  that  I 
am  forgiven? 

MAXIMILIEN.  But  you  are,  from  the  depth  of  my 
heart. 

FEBNANDE.  Then  do  not  leave  me  the  remorse  of 
having  taken  your  position  away  from  you. 

MAXIMILIEN.  Do  not  worry  about  me,  Mademoi- 
selle. I  '11  have  no  trouble  in  earning  a  living ;  mine 
is  not  costly.  You  did  me  a  great  service  by  opening 
my  eyes  to  the  dangers  which  my  honor  would  find 
here.  Appearances  are  against  me,  I  realize  that, 
and  the  example  of  my  predecessors  accuses  me.  If 
I  were  to  remain,  the  world  would  condemn  me  as  it 
does  them,  and  it  would  be  just. 

FEENANDE.    Just! 

MAXIMILIEN.  Yes,  indeed.  I  wouldn't  be  much 
better  than  they  are,  if  I  should  accept  to  be  scorned 
as  they  are,  rightly  or  wrongly. 

FEENANDE.    But  the  testimony  of  your  conscience  ? 

MAXIMILIEN.  [Smiling.]  I  know  my  conscience; 
she  is  peevish  and  would  worry  me,  under  pretense 
that  no  one  has  the  right  to  dare  public  opinion 
except  in  the  accomplishment  of  a  duty.  It  is  not  a 
duty  to  spread  jam  on  one's  bread. 

FERNANDE.    You  are  right ;  you  are  an  honest  man. 

MAXIMILIEN.  Why,  Mademoiselle,  honesty  is  as 
primary  as  spelling. 

FEENANDE.    Few  people  spell  as  well  as  you. 

MAXIMILIEN.    You're  very  sceptical  for  your  age. 

FEENANDE.  [Lowering  her  eyes.]  That's  twice 
you  have  told  me  that. 


94  GIBOYER'S  SON 

MAXIMIUEN.  Oh,  Mademoiselle,  I  was  making  no 
insinuation — I  didn't  mean  to — I  beg  your  pardon. 

FEENANDE.  [After  a  silence.]  You  must  not  judge 
me  like  another;  my  childhood  was  not  guarded  by 
a  mother ;  I  grew  alone  with  the  sentiment  that  I  was 
abandoned  and  with  the  instincts  of  a  savage.  At 
the  time  when  the  child  begins  to  lean  on  its  father, 
a  stranger  arose  between  my  father  and  me.  I  un- 
derstood that  my  protector  was  surrendering  and  I 
felt  that  he  was  threatened — with  what?  I  did  not 
know;  but  my  jealous  tenderness  became  clairvoy- 
ant. You  were  right  in  pitying  me.  I  have  lived  and 
suffered,  suffered  like  a  man,  not  like  a  young  girl. 
There  took  place  in  my  head  conflicts  which  have, 
you  might  say,  changed  the  sex  of  my  mind.  In 
place  of  feminine  delicacy,  a  feeling  of  manly  honor 
developed  in  me;  it  is  through  this  only  that  I  am 
worth  anything,  and  I  give  you  a  great  proof  of  my 
esteem  in  explaining  to  you  why  I  claim  yours. 

MAXIMIUEN.    Say,  my  respect. 

FEENANDE.  Our  paths  have  met  for  an  instant  and 
will  probably  part  forever;  but  I  shall  remember 
this  meeting,  and  I  hope  that  you  will  not  forget  it. 

MAXIMILJEN.  No,  indeed — and  my  humble  good 
wishes  will  follow  you  in  your  bright  new  existence. 
May  it  keep  the  promises  it  holds  out  to  you. 

FEENANDE.  [With  a  sad  smile.]  I  have  not  been 
spoiled,  and  I  am  not  very  exacting. 

MAXIMILIEN.  And  yet  your  dream  seems  to  me 
rather  aristocratic. 

FEENANDE.    Do  you  think  I'm  in  love  with  a  title? 

MAXIMILIEN.  Well,  it  cannot  be  the  person  who — 
I  beg  your  pardon,  Mademoiselle,  but  I  am  forgetting 
myself — I  abuse  the  chance  which  placed  me  so  far 
in  your  confidence. 

FEBNANDE.     [With  an  effort.]     How  can  you  fail 


GIBOYER'S  SON  95 

to  understand,  after  this  confidence,  that  my  father's 
house  has  become  unbearable  to  me  and  that  I  accept 
the  first  hand  offered  me  in  order  to  get  out  of  it? 

MAXIMILIEN.  What?  Is  that  the  only  reason? — 
It's  the  good  Lord  that  has  placed  me  upon  your 
way,  Mademoiselle.  Do  not  take  such  a  desperate 
step ;  things  are  not  as  serious  as  you  think.  I  know 
positively,  I  know  it  through  the  Marquis  d'Auber- 
ive,  that  your  stepmother's  actions  are  nothing  but 
romantic  childishness. 

FEBNANDE.    May  Heaven  grant  it !    But — 

MAXIMILIEN.  But  what?  What  have  you  found? 
Letters,  avowals  ?  That  is  possible ;  but  I  assure  you 
that  that  is  all. 

FEBNANDE.    And  what  more  could  it  be  ? 

MAXIMILIEN.  [Looks  at  her  in  astonishment,  and 
after  a  silence,  bowing  very  low.]  That  is  so. 

FEBNANDE.  You  see  that  I  have  more  reasons 
than  you  for  leaving.  And  I  am  grateful  to  Count 
d'Outreville  for  taking  me  away. — I  hear  them  en- 
ter; let  us  go  on,  each  one  our  own  path,  goodbye. 
[Exit.] 

MAXIMILIEN.  Oh,  chastity!  [He  remains  motion- 
less, looking  toivards  the  door,  through  which  Fer- 
nande  went  out,  then  goes  to  his  desk,  sits  down,  dips 
his  pen  in  the  inkstand.]  What  a  fool  I  am.  My 
work  is  over!  [Arising.]  M.  Marechal  does  not  need 
me  until  this  evening;  I  am  free.  [Takes  his  hat.] 
What  am  I  going  to  do  with  my  afternoon?  It's 
queer  how  bored  I  am!  Bah!  I'll  take  a  stroll  on 
the  boulevards !  [Sits  down.]  Heavens,  how  bored 
lam! 

GIBOYEB.     [Entering.]    Morning,  boy. 

MAXIMILIEN.  You,  my  old  friend?  You're  in  the 
nick  of  time!  What  are  you  going  to  do  to-day?  I 
am  free,  let  us  go  to  Viroflay. 


96  GIBOYER'S  SON 

GIBOYEB.    On  the  fifteenth  of  January! 

MAXIMILJEN.     That's  so. 

GIBOYEB.  You  bud  too  early.  Calm  these  spring- 
time feelings,  and  listen  to  me  attentively. — Maxi- 
milien,  we  are  rich. 

MAXIMILIEN.    Kich? 

GIBOYEB.  I  have  just  inherited  from  a  relative  I 
didn't  know. 

MAXIMTTJEN.    Inherited? 

GIBOYEB.    Twelve  thousand  a  year. 

MAXIMILIEN.     [Sadly.]    Is  that  all? 

GIBOYEB.  What  do  you  mean,  is  that  all?  Are  you 
so  intimate  with  millionaires  ? 

MAXIMILIEN.  No,  but  I  thought  you  were  an- 
nouncing great  wealth  to  me. 

GIBOYEB.  I  thought  so !  A  thousand  a  month  ap- 
peared rather  mythical  to  me. 

MAXIMILIEN.     That  isn't  wealth,  my  poor  friend. 

GIBOYEB.  At  any  rate,  it 's  independence !  You  no 
longer  need  to  be  in  anyone 's  service.  Send  in  your 
resignation  to  M.  Marechal. 

MAXIMILIEN.    It's  done. 

GIBOYEB.    Bah ! 

MAXIMILIEN.  I  did  not  await  your  millions  to  feel 
bored  at  being  under  orders. 

GIBOYEB.  Everything  is  for  the  best.  You're 
going  to  start  again  on  your  tour  of  the  world. 

MAXIMIUEN.    Leave  Paris? 

GIBOYEB.    What's  keeping  you  here? 

MAXIMILIEN.    Why — you. 

GIBOYEB.  You  will  imagine  that  I  am  still  in 
Lyons.  I  am  not  parting  from  you  for  my  own 
pleasure.  When  you  wish  Bordeaux  wine  to  grow 
old  quickly,  you  send  it  to  sea.  It  is  an  expense  of 
money  but  an  economy  of  time.  Within  a  year,  I'll 
have  Maximilien  back  from  the  Indies. 


GIBOYER'S  SON  97 

MAXIMILIEN.    You  want  to  send  me  to  India? 

GIBOYEK.    Not  quite ;  to  America. 

MAXIMILIEN.    What  for? 

GIBOYEE.    To  study  democracy,  of  course. 

MAXIMILIEN.    Thanks,  it's  too  far. 

GIBOYEB.  It  is  farther  than  Viroflay,  but  you  used 
to  love  to  travel. 

MAXIMILIEN.    I  don't  seem  to  love  it  any  more. 

GIBOYER.    Ah!    Whom  do  you  love? 

MAXIMILIEN.  I  love — but  why  don't  you  go  to 
America  yourself,  to  cure  yourself  once  for  all  of 
your  chimeras? 

GIBOYER.  My  chimeras? — Aren't  they  yours  any 
more  ?  This  is  something  new !  What 's  back  of  all 
this? 

MAXIMILIEN.  [Impatiently.]  Nothing.  What  do 
you  suppose? 

GIBOYER.  [Taking  him  Toy  the  arm.]  Look  me  in 
the  eyes. 

MAXIMILIEN.  [Releasing  himself  abruptly.]  Ah, 
let  me  be. — Am  I  not  free  to  believe  anything  beside 
what  you  teach?  [Goes  up  stage.] 

GIBOYER.  Ah! — And  may  I  know  what  you 
believe  ? 

MAXIMILIEN.  I  believe  that  the  only  solid  basis  in 
politics  as  in  morals,  is  faith,  there ! 

GIBOYER.    You  are  a  legitimist  now? 

MAXIMILIEN.  I  don't  have  to  be  a  legitimist  for 
that. 

GIBOYER.  Don't  let's  play  on  words,  I  know  but 
one  way  of  introducing  faith  into  politics,  and  that  is 
to  profess  that  every  power  comes  from  God,  and 
consequently  is  amenable  only  to  God.  That's  a  very 
important  opinion,  I  do  not  deny  it,  but  when  one 
professes  it,  whatever  may  be  the  party  to  which  he 
thinks  he  belongs,  he  is  a  legitimist. 


98  GIBOYER'S  SON 

MAXIMILIEN.    All  right,  let's  say  I'm  one. 

GIBOYER.    You  are  ? 

MAXIMILIEN.    Why  not? 

GIBOYEB.  My  life  would  escape  me  for  the  second 
time?  [Going  to  Maximilien.]  Who  stole  you  from 
me,  cruel  child  ?  How  do  you  escape  me  ?  Who  per- 
verted you?  There  is  a  woman  back  of  this!  Only 
women  bring  about  these  conversions !  You  are  not 
a  legitimist,  you  are  in  love. 

MAXIMILIEN.     I? 

GIBOYEB.  There  is  some  siren  here,  who  took 
pleasure  in  catechising  you. 

MAXIMILIEN.  Madame  Marechal  a  siren !  My  only 
catechism  was  a  speech  of  her  husband's  over  which 
I  meditated  while  copying  it. 

GIBOYEB.  Marechal 's  speech!  A  conglomeration 
of  sophisms  and  of  platitudes ! 

MAXIMELIEN.    How  do  you  know  ? 

GIBOYEB.    I  ought  to,  I  wrote  it ! 

MAXIMILIEN.    You? 

GIBOYEB.  [After  some  hesitation.]  Yes,  I. — I 
wrote  it,  so  you  see  what  it's  worth. 

MAXIMILIEN.  So  you  do  that  kind  of  business! 
That  was  before  your  inheritance,  I  suppose? 

GIBOYEB.  Scorn  me,  trample  on  me,  I  don't  count 
any  more ;  but  give  me  back  the  straightforwardness 
of  your  mind  which  is  the  foundation  of  my  edifice, 
my  rehabilitation  in  my  own  eyes,  my  resurrection! 
I  dishonored  in  my  person  a  soldier  of  truth.  I  am 
no  longer  worthy  of  serving  her ;  but  I  owe  her  some 
one  in  my  place,  and  I  promised  myself  that  it  would 
be  you.  Do  not  desert,  my  dear  child. 

MAXIMILIEN.  Your  truth  is  no  longer  mine !  The 
truth  I  recognize  and  which  I  wish  to  serve,  is  the 
truth  which  dictated  that  speech  to  you.  What 


GIBOYER'S  SON  99 

astonishes  me  is  that  it  did  not  undeceive  you  con- 
cerning your  Utopias. 

GIBOYEB.  The  worst  Utopia  is  that  which  wishes 
to  make  humanity  go  back. 

MAXIMILJEN.    Even  when  it  took  the  wrong  road? 

GIBOYEB.  Rivers  do  not  take  the  wrong  road  and 
submerge  the  madman  who  wishes  to  stop  them. 

MAXIMILIEN.    Words,  mere  words ! 

GIBOYEB.    Facts ! — Ask  the  Restoration. 

MAXIMILIEN.  After  all  you  have  nothing  to  put  in 
the  place  of  what  you  have  destroyed. 

GIBOYEB.  Nothing?  Where  did  you  ever  see  in 
history  that  a  society  has  replaced  another  without 
bringing  into  the  world  a  higher  dogma! — Antiquity 
did  not  admit  equality  either  before  the  human  law 
nor  before  divine  law ;  the  middle  ages  proclaimed  it 
in  Heaven,  '89  proclaimed  it  upon  earth. 

MAXIMILIEN.    You  are  right ;  does  that  please  you  f 

GIBOYEB.  Do  not  avoid  the  discussion,  my  child;  I 
have  such  great  need  of  persuading  you!  It  is  not 
an  opinion  I  am  defending,  it  is  my  life ! 

MAXIMELIEK.  Your  life! — Come,  is  a  society  pos- 
sible without  hierarchy? 

GIBOYEB.    No,  a  hundred  times  no ! 

MAXIMILIEN.     Then  where  does  equality  come  in? 

GIBOYEB.  Ah — the  confusion  of  languages! — 
Equality  is  not  a  level. 

MAXIMILIEN.    What  is  it  then? 

GIBOYEB.  This  great  word  can  have  but  one  sense, 
the  same  here  as  above:  "to  each  one  according  to 
his  works!"  I  wrote  a  book  on  that,  which  I  shall 
let  you  read. 

MAXIMILJEN.    No. 

GIBOYEB.     No  ? 

MAXIMILJEN.  What's  the  good?  If  it  does  not 
convince  me,  it's  that  much  lost  time. 


100  GIBOTER'S  SON 

GIBOYEB.    But  if  it  does  ? 

MAXIMILIEN.  Who  tells  you  that  I  want  to  be 
convinced  ? 

GIBOYER.  There  is  another  woman  here  besides 
Madame  Marechal. 

MAXIMILIEN.  You're  mad!  There  is  only  an 
heiress  here. 

GIBOYEB.    Ah,  I  understand. 

MAXIMILIEN.  [Indignantly.]  If  I  were  tempted 
to  love  her,  I  would  feel  contempt  for  myself,  for  I 
will  not  sell  anything,  neither  my  heart — nor  my  pen. 

GIBOYEB.  Nor  your  pen!  You  are  ungrateful, 
when  it  was  for  you,  only  for  you ! 

MAXIMILIEN.  For  me?  By  what  right  do  you 
render  me  dishonorable  services!  Who  told  you 
that  I  did  not  prefer  poverty?  Is  that  what  you  call 
your  inheritance?  You  may  keep  it,  I  shall  not 
touch  it !  [Giboyer  lets  himself  fall  into  an  armchair 
and  hides  his  face  in  his  hands.]  I  beg  your  pardon, 
my  old  friend,  you  did  not  know  what  you  were  do- 
ing. 

GIBOYEB.  I  knew  that  I  was  sacrificing  myself  for 
you,  that  I  had  to  protect  your  youth  from  the  trials 
to  which  mine  had  given  way,  and  I  licked  the  mud 
from  your  path ;  but  you  should  not  reproach  me  for 
it.  My  pen  is  not  the  first  thing  I  sold  for  you — I 
had  sold  my  liberty  before. 

MAXIMILIEN.    Your  liberty ! 

GIBOYEB.  During  two  years,  in  order  to  pay  for 
your  education  at  college,  I  served  the  prison  sen- 
tences of  a  newspaper,  at  so  much  a  year — but  never 
mind,  I  am  only  a  good-for-nothing,  and  you  will  not 
accept  anything  from  me.  Ah,  God  punishes  me  too 
severely !  And  yet  I  am  not  a  bad  man — there  are 
very  sad  destinies.  Duties  too  heavy  to  bear  have 


GIBOYER'S  SON  101 

brought  me  down.    I  began  because  of  my  father — I 
ended — 

MAXIMILIEN.     [Kneeling  before  Mm.]    Because  of 
your  son.    [Giboyer  clasps  him  in  Ms  arms.] 

[CURTAIN.] 


ACT  IV. 

[A  parlor  at  the  Baroness'.  Double  doors  at  the 
back  opening  upon  a  second  parlor  where  some 
elderly  persons  are  seen,  playing  whist  or  con- 
versing; a  side  door,  also  open,  leads  to  an  ante- 
chamber which  one  reaches  from  the  outside.  At 
the  back,  a  tea  table;  a  sofa  to  the  right  on  the 
slant;  armchair  and  chair  to  the  left;  sofa  against 
the  wall;  on  the  left,  back,  an  armchair  near  the 
table.] 
BARONESS.  You  see,  Mademoiselle,  that  I  did  not 

deceive  you  when  I  told  you  that  my  parlor  is  not 

very  cheerful. 

FERNANDE.    It  is  very  interesting,  Madame;  you 

have  here  a  reunion  of  celebrities  belonging  to  all 

regimes. 
BARONESS.    A  reunion — say  union!    But  I  admit 

that  these  celebrities  do  not  make  a  bouquet  of 

freshly  cut  flowers.    Therefore,  I  wished  to  enliven 

it  by  introducing  some  well-thinking  young  women, 

and  I  expect  this  evening  two  or  three  who  are  as 

courageous  as  you  were. 

FERNANDE — It  did  not  require  courage,  Madame. 
A  SERVANT.    [Announcing.]    Viscount  deVrilliere. 

[The  Viscount  salutes  the  Baroness,  who  offers  him 

her  hand.] 
BARONESS.    Your  mother  must  be  better,  since  you 

are  here? 

VISCOUNT.    Thank  Heaven,  she  is  quite  well  now ! 
BARONESS.    Then  go  at  once  and  reassure  the  good 

Madame  de  la  Vieuxtour.    She  was  asking  for  news 

a  few  moments  ago. 

102 


GIBOYER'S  SON  103 

VISCOUNT.  Charming  woman!  [He  bows  and 
enters  the  parlor  at  the  back.] 

'  BARONESS.  This  forty-year-old  man  is  the  baby  of 
our  coterie.  We  also  need  a  few  young  men;  but 
that's  a  very  delicate  point;  I  will  not  permit  a  sus- 
picion of  coquettishness  in  my  house.  I  am  very 
much  afraid  that  I  shall  be  reduced  to  small  incon- 
sequential gentlemen  like  your  father's  secretary, 
for  instance. 

FEBNANDE.  You  were  not  fortunate  in  your  first 
attempt.  M.  Gerard  is  far  from  being  an  inconse- 
quential little  gentleman;  he  is  on  the  contrary  a 
man  of  great  merit,  as  I  have  been  told. 

BARONESS.  I  do  not  dispute  that ;  I  meant  inconse- 
quential in  regard  to  women.  A  woman  of  a  certain 
class  cannot  pay  any  attention  to  a  nobody,  don't 
you  think  so? 

FERNANDE.  You  will  think  me  very  plebeian, 
Madame,  for  I  believe  that  an  honorable  man  is  not 
a  nobody. 

BARONESS.  [Aside.']  That's  clear  enough.  [Aloud.'} 
By  a  nobody,  I  meant  a  man  without  birth.  Beside. 
M.  Gerard  is  charming;  he  has  a  natural  distinction 
which  is  quite  rare,  even  among  ourselves.  If  he 
entered  a  parlor  at  the  same  time  as  certain  noble- 
men, on  hearing  the  name  announced,  the  great 
name  would  undoubtedly  be  applied  to  him.  He  evi- 
dently was  not  born  to  be  a  secretary. 

FERNANDE.    That's  why  he  is  no  longer  one. 

BARONESS.    Ah!    Since  when? 

FERNANDE.    Since  yesterday. 

SERVANT.  [Announcing.']  Chevalier  de  Germoise. 
[The  Chevalier  comes  to  greet  the  Baroness.] 

BARONESS.    You  are  one  of  the  last. 

CHEVALIER.  Glad  you  should  have  noticed  it, 
Madame. 


104  GIBOYER'S  SON 

BARONESS.  M.  d'Auberive  was  beginning  to  grow 
impatient. 

CHEVALIER.  He  does  not  like  to  be  kept  waiting 
for  his  game.  [He  bows  and  enters  the  parlor.} 

BARONESS.    And  why  is  he  no  longer  a  secretary? 

FERNANDE.  Because,  as  you  said,  he  was  not 
born  to  be  one. 

BARONESS  [Aside.]  She  lowers  her  eyes.  [Aloud.] 
I  do  not  know  why  I  am  interested  in  him.  Has  he 
another  position  ? 

FERNANDE.  No,  Madame,  not  that  I  know  of ;  and 
you  would  be  very  kind,  since  he  interests  you,  to  do 
what  you  could  for  him.  You  are  all-powerful. 

BARONESS.  That's  saying  a  great  deal;  but  I 
would  call  myself  very  unlucky  if  I  did  not  succeed 
in  being  agreeable  to  you. 

FERNANDE.  And  I  would  be  very  grateful  to  you, 
Madame. 

SERVANT  [Announcing.]  M.  Couturier  de  la 
Haute- Sar  the. 

BARONESS.  I  beg  your  pardon.  Here  is  a  great 
personage  to  whom  I  must  speak.  [Taking  Fernande 
to  the  parlor.]  And  also  if  I  appropriate  you  thus, 
for  my  own  benefit,  I  shall  displease  M.  d'Outreville. 

FERNANDE.    Do  you  think  so ? 

BARONESS.  [Having  reached  the  back  parlor.] 
I  shall  do  what  I  can  for  this  poor  young  man. 

FERNANDE.  Thanks.  [They  shake  hands.  Fer- 
nande enters  the  parlor.] 

BARONESS.  [Aside.]  That's  one — now  let's  cut 
short  M.  MarechaPs  glory.  [To  M.  Couturier.] 
How  is  your  Highness? 

COUTURIER.    And  your  Grace? 

BARONESS.    A  little  bewildered. 

COUTURIER.  And  by  what?  [They  sit  down  to  the 
left  on  the  chair  and  on  the  armchair.] 


GIBOYER'S  SON  105 

BAEONESS.  I  give  you  ten  guesses,  I  give  you  a 
hundred — I  had  this  afternoon  a  call  from  this  poor 
M.  d'Aigremont. 

COUTURIER.    Why  poor?   Is  he  ill? 

BAEONESS.  Worse  than  that,  as  you  will  see !  The 
conversation  turned  naturally  on  politics,  on  our 
plan  of  campaign,  on  Marechal,  on  the  speech. 

COUTURIER.    Well  ? 

BARONESS.  And  what  do  you  suppose.  He 
regrets  that  he  was  not  asked  to  deliver  it. 

COUTURIER.    He !    A  Protestant  I   He  is  crazy. 

BARONESS.  He  is,  that's  what  I  thought  right 
away.  And  it  is  the  more  troublesome  that  he  rea- 
sons about  his  madness. 

COUTURIER.    How  is  that? 

BARONESS.  He  says  that  religious  differences, 
like  political  differences,  must  give  way  before  the 
common  enemy.  That  all  the  churches  must  join 
hands  to  fight  the  Revolution,  that  a  Protestant 
pleading  our  cause  would  have  more  weight,  that  it 
would  be  a  great  example,  that — oh,  I  don't  remem- 
ber I  Vagaries ! 

COUTURIER.  Pardon  me!  This  is  not  at  all 
extravagant!  It  shows  on  the  contrary  a  power  of 
foresight  which  astonishes  me  in  M.  d'Aigremont. 

BARONESS.     [Artlessly.]     Really? 

COUTURIER.  That  idea  is  not  his  own,  it  must  have 
been  suggested  to  him.  I  am  astonished  that  a  mind 
as  keen  as  yours  did  not  realize  that  just  as  I  did. 

BARONESS.  I  am  only  a  woman  and  bow  before 
your  great  reasoning  powers. 

COUTURIER.  To  have  our  speech  uttered  by  a 
Protestant  would  be  truly  a  triumph ! 

BARONESS.    Ah,  Heavens! 

COUTURIER.    Why  this  exclamation? 


106  GIBOYER'S  SON 

BARONESS.  I  hope  that  you  are  not  going  to  take 
the  speech  away  from  my  poor  Marechal  ? 

COUTURIER.  Of  course  not.  There  will  be  more 
than  one  speech  on  the  question. 

BARONESS  [Quickly.]  Give  the  others  to  whomso- 
ever you  please ;  it's  the  first  one  that  counts.  Tying 
on  the  bell  is  the  chief  operation. 

COUTURIER.    That's  so. 

BARONESS.    Isn't  it? 

COUTURIER.  So  much  so  that  any  other  considera- 
tion gives  way  before  that  one. 

BARONESS.    What  do  you  mean  ? 

COUTURIER.  My  dear  Baroness,  in  the  name  of 
our  cause,  I  beseech  you  to  abandon  your  protege. 

BARONESS.  Alas,  you  take  me  by  my  weak  side.  I 
can  refuse  nothing  to  our  cause.  But  is  there  really 
a  sufficiently  transcendental  interest  for  us  to  decide 
to  grieve  this  excellent  man?  That's  very  hard,  my 
dear  friend. 

COUTURIER  [Arising.]  What  a  mistake,  not  to 
have  thought  of  d'Aigremont  sooner!  But  how 
could  we  suppose  he  would  accept  ?  We  are  pledged 
to  Marechal  now. 

BARONESS.  He  is  one  of  our  creatures  and 
because  of  that  has  some  claims  upon  us. 

COUTURIER.  I  beg  your  pardon,  the  contrary 
would  be  more  correct. 

BARONESS.  Did  I  stumble  again!  Poor  old 
Marechal! — I  know  what  we  might  say  to  him;  we 
might  make  him  understand  that  this  is  not  a  ques- 
tion of  personalities,  that  you,  yourself,  in  his  place, 
would  not  hesitate  to  withdraw  in  the  general 
interest. 

COUTURIER.  And  it  would  be  strange  that  M. 
Marechal  should  hesitate  where  I  would  not,  you 
must  admit  that. 


GIBOYER'S  SON  107 

BABONESS.  Just  the  same  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
painful  this  is  to  me,  but  even  my  friendship  for 
Marechal  must  yield  before  your  arguments. 

COUTUBIEB.  I  expected  no  less  from  your 
patriotism. 

BABONESS.  But  I  warn  you  that  all  the  members 
of  the  committee  will  not  be  as  disinterested 
as  I  am.  You  will  find  great  opposition  in  M. 
d'Auberive. 

COUTUBIEB.  Yes,  he  has  a  great  liking  for 
Marechal. 

BABONESS.  The  more  so  that  he  wishes  to  marry 
Mademoiselle  Fernande  to  a  cousin  of  his  whom  you 
will  see  here. 

COUTUBIEB.  Eeally,  this  descendant  of  the  cru- 
saders consents  to  cross  his  race  with  our  own? 

BABONESS.  He  probably  conjectures  that  the 
young  person  has  already  blue  blood  in  her  veins — 
but  that  does  not  concern  us.  So  you  understand 
how  eager  he  is  to  soften  the  mesalliance  by  a  pseudo 
nobility  of  position. 

COUTUBIEB.  Thanks  for  the  information.  I  am 
going  to  secure  the  approval  of  all  the  others ;  they 
will  compel  him  to  acquiesce. 

BABONESS.  [Looking  towards  the  left.]  Madame 
Marechal ! — How  painful  all  this  is. 

COUTUBIEB.  Warn  her  gently;  as  for  me,  I  shall 
do  my  duty  as  I  have  always  done  it  without  hesita- 
tion and  without  weakness. 

BARONESS.  Antique  soul!  [Exit  Couturier,  enter 
Madame  Marechal.] 

BABONESS.  [Aside.]  That's  two! — Now,  the  next 
one!  [Aloud.]  I  hope  you  are  not  thinking  of  leav- 
ing us. 

MADAME  MABECHAL.  Excuse  me,  but  I  am  tired. 
Nothing  less  than  the  pleasure  of  coming  to  your 


108  GIBOYER'S  SON 

house  would  have  decided  me  to  go  out  this  evening. 
I  do  not  know  what  has  become  of  M.  Marechal. 

BARONESS.  He  went  into  the  library  to  seek  a  lit- 
tle solitude,  let  us  respect  his  meditations.  As  it 
happens,  I  need  some  confidential  information  which 
you  are  able  to  give  me.  [Leading  her  to  the  sofa.] 
You  will  grant  me  five  minutes,  my  dear  friend,  even 
if  you  are  tired!  [They  sit  down.] 

MME.  MARECHAL,.  You  would  make  me  forget  it, 
my  dear  Baroness. 

BARONESS.  Why  does  M.  Gerard  leave  your 
husband? 

MME.  MARECHAL.  He  is  a  very  proud  young  man, 
who  cannot  bear  being  dependent. 

BARONESS.  Yes,  that  is  the  official  reason,  but  I 
ask  you  for  the  true  reason.  I  must  know  what  to 
think  of  him  before  I  do  anything  for  him. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  Let  us  protect  him,  my  dear 
Baroness.  He's  worthy  of  it.  He  has  the  most 
delicate,  the  most  loyal,  the  most  dependable  heart 
you  may  imagine. 

BARONESS.  I  am  delighted.  I  do  not  know  why — 
but  I  was  afraid  he  was  a  flirt.  I  prefer  to  believe  in 
the  sincerity  of  his  love. 

MME.  MARECHAL.    His  love!    For  whom? 

BARONESS.    Why — for  Fernande. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  [Quickly.]  For  Fernande! 
Poor  fellow !  He  is  far  from  thinking  of  it. 

BARONESS.    Beally?    Are  you  quite  sure? 

MME.  MARECHAL.  [Worried.]  But  what  makes 
you  believe  ? 

BARONESS.  Nothing ;  do  not  let  us  speak  of  it  any 
more ;  I  must  have  been  mistaken. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  A  woman  with  your  tact  does 
not  make  a  mistake  without  good  reason.  What  did 
you  notice? 


GIBOYER'S  SON  109 

BARONESS.  What  shall  I  tell  you?  I  had  foolishly 
imagined  that  Fernande 's  marriage  had  something 
to  do  with  the  departure  of  the  young  man.  Did  he 
speak  of  leaving  you  before  M.  d'Outreville 
appeared  ? 

MME.  MARECHAL.  [Impressed.]  No, — and  he 
resigned  the  very  same  day. — But,  no,  he  learned 
of  the  marriage  only  this  morning. 

BARONESS.  Don't  you  see!  And  unless  you  sup- 
pose that  Fernande  announced  it  to  him  yesterday, 
which  is  impossible, — 

MME.  MAEECHAL.  [With  great  emotion.]  Why 
impossible? 

BARONESS.  You  would  have  to  admit  that  she  is 
not  indifferent  to  the  fellow,  which  I  do  not  wish  to 
believe, — but  that  is  not  the  point:  she  has  just 
recommended  him  to  me  with  a  warmth  which  is 
somewhat  surprising  coming  from  a  person  who  is 
usually  so  reserved. 

MME.  MARECHAL.    Keally? 

BARONESS.     She  is  a  very  energetic  young  person. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  I  know  her!  And  Gerard — • 
could  they  have  deceived  me  thus  ? 

BARONESS.    Let  us  not  judge  hastily. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  I  remember  a  thousand  details 
now :  the  offended  looks  of  that  man,  the  beseeching 
attitude  of  Fernande — she  was  trying  to  be  alone 
with  him.  [Turning  towards  the  parlor.]  There, 
look  at  them  chatting  together !  How  absolutely  they 
forget  that  they  are  not  alone — and  this  fool, 
d'Outreville,  who  doesn't  notice  anything! 

BARONESS.  I  wouldn't  be  so  sure  of  that — he  is 
watching  them  with  a  worried  look,  as  if  they  were 
robbing  him. — Hm!  all  this  might  end  badly:  the 
marriage  isn't  made  yet,  take  care! 

MME.  MARECHAL.    You  frighten  me. 


110  GIBOYER'S  SON 

BARONESS.  You  have  no  time  to  lose  if  you  care 
about  an  alliance  with  the  Count.  I  cannot  believe 
in  Fernande's  duplicity.  She  is  acting  uncon- 
sciously ;  recall  her  to  her  senses  by  making  her  feel 
sharply  the  abyss  which  separates  her  from  this 
fellow. 

MME.  MAKECHAL.    Yes,  but  how? 

BARONESS.  Put  the  young  man  in  his  place  publicly. 

MME.  MARECHAL.     On  what  occasion  f 

BARONESS.  The  occasion  we  can  find  here,  this 
evening.  We  shall  seek  one.  Love  humiliated  does 
not  last. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  You  are  right ;  thanks,  my  dear 
Baroness!  Fernande  will  be  saved.  [Aside.]  And 
I  shall  be  revenged.  [Aloud.  On  seeing  Maximilien 
enter.}  There  is  the  deceiver;  let's  go  into  the  par- 
lor— I  could  not  contain  myself. 

BARONESS.  Yes,  do  not  let  us  seem  to  be  conspir- 
ing. [They  leave  through  one  door  while  Maximilien 
enters  through  the  other.] 

MAXIMILIEN.  I  did  not  want  to  come, — why  did  I  ? 
How  beautiful  she  is!  What  an  adorable  soul!  I 
feel  overcome  by  a  mad  love,  and  am  already  incap- 
able of  defending  myself! — Well,  why  struggle 
against  myself?  Why  cling  to  my  vanishing  reason? 
Let  us  yield  to  the  lure  of  the  abyss!  The  die  is 
cast !  I  love  her !  I  love  her !  I  love  her ! — Ah,  what 
a  good  resolution  that  is !  How  pleasant  it  is  to  be 
alive !  My  interest  in  all  things  is  reviving — 

SERVANT.     [Announcing.]    M.  de  Boyergi. 

MAXIMILIEN.  [On  the  threshold  of  the  parlor.]  I 
am  even  interested  in  seeing  Deodat's  successor! — 
You? 

GIBOYER.  [With  a  gesture  of  anger.]  Go  to  the 
devil ! 

MAXIMILIEN.    It  is  you  who  sign  Boyergi  ? 


GIBOYER'S  SON  111 

GIBOYER.  [Harshly.]  How  do  you  happen  to  be 
here? 

MAXIMILIEN.  Do  you  then  wish  to  keep  up  this 
horrible  trade!  Poor  father! 

GIBOYER.  In  the  first  place,  you  have  promised  me 
to  forget  that  I  am  your  father. 

MAXIMILIEN.  I  promised  you  not  to  say  it;  but 
forget  it — !  Did  I  promise  you  that  I  would  be 
ungrateful  I 

GIBOYER.  Ah! — I  ask  you  for  but  one  proof  of 
your  gratitude.  Let  me  finish  my  work.  I  have  no 
need  of  your  respect. 

MAXIMILIEN.  But  I  need  to  respect  you!  What 
ungodly  struggle  do  you  wish  to  begin  between  my 
love  and  my  honor?  Which  of  those  do  you  wish  to 
win? 

GIBOYER.  [Seated  on  the  sofa.]  I  can't  allow  you 
to  be  worn  out  by  poverty ! 

MAXIMILIEN.  Do  you  think  that  I  would  accept 
your  benefactions,  knowing  what  they  cost  you? 
Didn't  you  put  me  in  a  position  to  earn  my  living  and 
yours?  Have  we  so  many  needs,  you  and  I?  We 
know  poverty ;  let  us  go  back  to  it  cheerfully,  arm  in 
arm.  Will  it  not  be  charming  to  live  together  with 
our  work,  in  a  garret  ? 

GIBOYER.    Charming  for  me! 

MAXIMILIEN.  And  for  me,  I  assure  you.  I  know 
who  you  are  now.  I  am  proud  of  you :  I  have  read 
your  book ! 

GIBOYER.    Did  it  convince  you? 

MAXIMILIEN.  Yes,  indeed.  [Putting  his  hand  on 
Giboyer's  forehead.]  But  I  no  longer  wish  you  to 
vilify  the  great  mind  that  is  there. — How  you  must 
suffer  in  reviling  your  great  ideas  in  this  reactionary 
newspaper!  Leave  it,  I  beg  of  you.  [Smiling.]  I 
command  you  to!  I  have  some  rights  over  you, 


112  GIBOYER'S  SON 

haven't  I?  You  have  licked  the  mud  upon  my  road 
often  enough,  as  you  said ;  wipe  your  mouth  and  kiss 
me.  [Kisses  him  on  the  cheek.] 

GIBOYEK.    You're  a  brave  fellow. 

MAXIMHIEN.    You  will  obey  me? 

GIBOYEE.    I  have  got  to.    Aren't  you  my  master? 

MAXIMILIEN.  I  am  successful  in  everything  to-day. 
Long  live  the  Lord ! 

GIBOYEB.    In  everything!    In  what  else? 

MAXIMELIEN.    Nothing. 

GIBOYEE.  You  have  secrets  from  your  old 
comrade  ? 

MAXIMILIEN.  We  shall  write  your  resignation  as 
soon  as  we  get  back  to  your  lodgings,  and  I  will  take 
it,  tomorrow  morning  early,  so  that  the  members 
of  the  committee  get  it  on  awakening.  What  a  pleas- 
ure it  is  to  take  their  champion  away  from  them! 
You  can't  imagine  what  is  heard  here.  A  real 
conspiracy  against  our  ideas. 

GIBOYEB.  Yes,  I  know.  The  great  parlor  con- 
spiracy, with  ramifications  in  the  dining-rooms  and 
boudoirs. 

MAXIMILIEN.  You  are  joking,  but  beware!  The 
name  of  this  party  is  legion. 

GIBOYEB.  Legions  of  colonels  without  regiments, 
of  staffs  without  troops.  They  consider  as  their 
army  the  spectators  who  watch  them  prance ;  but  on 
the  day  they  would  make  a  real  levy,  they  would 
sound  the  recall  in  the  desert. 

MAXIMILIEN".  If  that's  so,  they  are  not  very 
dangerous. 

GIBOYER.  They  are,  for  the  governments  they 
support.  These  fellows  can  only  upset  the  carriages 
they  drive,  but  they  upset  them  well.  [Two  servants 
bring  the  tea.] 

MAXIMILIEN.     [Looking  into  the  parlor.]     Hush! 


GIBOYER'S  SON  113 

They  are  coming — the  Marquis  d'Auberive,  with 
whom  is  he? 

GIBOYEB.  With  the  eminent  Couturier  de  la 
Haute-Sarthe,  a  repentant  liberal. 

MAXIMILIEN.    They  seem  to  adore  one  another. 

GIBOYEB.  I  should  say  so!  All  brothers  and 
friends — an  example,  this  morning  I  had  amused 
myself  by  putting  in  some  digs  at  the  same  Couturier 
in  my  article;  the  Marquis  scratched  out  the  para- 
graph with  the  simple  and  profound  sentence :  * '  Not 
yet!" 

MAXIMILIEN.  Well,  the  Marquis  won't  scratch 
out  anything  more  for  you. 

MAKQUIS.  [To  M.  Couturier,  down  stage,  left.} 
Since  the  committee  is  unanimous  in  favor  of  M. 
d'Aigremont,  I  can  only  bow  before  its  decision, 
however  painful  it  might  be  to  me. 

COUTUBIEB.  The  decision  was  taken  only  because 
of  a  superior  interest  which  you  yourself  recognize. 

MABQUIS.  I  do  not  deny  it,  but  I  would  prefer  to 
let  another  deal  the  blow  to  poor  Marechal. 

COUTUBIEB.  We  thought  that  from  your  hand,  the 
blow  would  not  be  so  hard ;  but  if  it  is  too  painful  to 
you,  I  will  do  it. 

MABQUIS.  Thanks.  [He  sits  down  on  the  left — M. 
Couturier  becomes  lost  in  the  crowd.] 

CHEVALIEB.  [To  a  lady.]  The  little  Gerard  is 
really  much  better  looking  than  Count  d'Outreville; 
but  is  it  quite  certain  that  Mademoiselle  Fernande 
prefers  the  secretary?  The  Baroness  is  so  afraid 
of  it,  that  she  seems  to  be  sure.  [He  leads  the  lady 
to  an  armchair.] 

MME.  MABECHAL.  [Seated  on  the  sofa,  to  the 
Count,  who  brings  her  a  cup  of  tea.]  Very  hot,  if 
you  please,  I  like  it  very  hot. 


114  GIBOYER'S  SON 

MME.  DE  LA  VIEUXTOUB.  [Behind  the  sofa,  to  Vis- 
count de  Vrilliere.]  Poor  woman !  She  loves  every- 
thing that  burns  her  fingers. 

VISCOUNT  DE  VBILLJEBE.  Well,  these  bourgeois 
ambitions  deserve  being  scolded  at  times. 

MME.  DE  LA  VIEUXTOUB.  After  all,  the  Baroness 
may  be  mistaken. 

VISCOUNT  DE  VBILLIEBE.  Hm !  The  young  man  is 
charming. 

MME.  DE  LA  VIEUXTOUB.  But  not  as  much  as  the  title 
of  Countess.  [During  this  dialogue,  she  goes  up 
stage,  talking  to  all  the  guests.]  Father  Vernier  was 
admirable  this  morning — were  you  there,  M.  de 
Vrilliere? 

VISCOUNT  DE  VBILLIEBE.    I  was  not  able  to  go. 

GIBOYEB.  [Aside.]  They  were  refusing  admis- 
sion. 

MME.  DE  LA  VIEUXTOUB.  You  lost  a  great  deal,  he 
had  such  new  and  touching  thoughts  on  charity. 

GIBOYEB.     [Aside.]     Did  he  say  not  to  practice  it? 

MME.  MABECHAL.  I  was  shocked  by  Madame 
Dervieu's  gown.  Did  you  notice  it? 

BABONESS.    No. 

MME.  MABECHAL.  Just  think,  she  had  on  a  dress 
of  pale  yellow  satin  trimmed  with  cherry  velvet,  a 
coat  of  the  same  goods  trimmed  in  ermine,  a  hat  of 
white  tulle  with  ruffles,  trimmed  with  cherry 
feathers.  One  goes  to  church  to  concentrate  one's 
thoughts,  and  not  to  show  oneself,  don't  you  think 
so? 

MARQUIS.  [From  the  other  side  of  the  stage.]  I 
see  with  pleasure,  Madame,  that  you  were  concen- 
trating your  thoughts. 

MME.  MABECHAL.  Certainly ;  I  had  on  a  carmelite 
dress. 


GIBOYER'S  SON  115 

MME.  DE  LA  VIETJXTOTJK.  Which  fitted  you 
perfectly. 

BARONESS.  [Going  to  Giboyer,  behind  the  sofa.] 
Don't  you  take  tea? 

GIBOYEB.  A  thousand  thanks,  Madame,  I  am 
afraid  of  it. 

BARONESS.  [Whispering  to  Mrne.  Marechal,  while 
showing  her  Maximilien,  who  is  standing  and  talk- 
ing with  Fernande,  who  is  seated.]  Now  is  the  time. 
[She  goes  up  stage.] 

MME.  MARECHAL.  M.  Gerard — relieve  me  of  my 
cup. 

COUNT.  [Who,  on  a  motion  from  the  Baroness, 
rushes  forward  to  take  the  cup.]  Madame.  [On 
hearing  Mme.  Marechal,  Maximilien  starts  totvards 
her,  but  stops  on  seeing  the  motion  of  the  Count.] 

MME.  MARECHAL.  Leave  this,  Count.  The  young 
man  is  there. 

FERNANDE.  [Aside.]  That's  too  much.  [She 
arises  and  goes  quickly  to  the  table  at  the  back. 
Gerard  takes  a  step  backward.] 

GIBOYER.     [Aside.]     She  rings  for  him. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  [Still  holding  her  cup.]  M. 
Gerard? 

FERNANDE.  [From  the  table.]  M.  Gerard,  will 
you  allow  me  to  wait  on  you  ? 

MAXIMILIEN.  I  have  already  refused  a  cup, 
Mademoiselle. 

FERNANDE.  [Going  to  him  with  a  cup  in  her 
hand.]  You  will  not  refuse  it  from  my  hand. 
[Maximilien  bows  and  takes  the  cup — general 
astonishment.  Great  silence.] 

GIBOYER.  [Aside.]  So  that  was  his  secret!  It 
makes  a  sensation.  [To  Mme.  Marechal.]  This  cup 
is  in  your  way!  For  the  lack  of  the  nephew,  allow 
the  uncle  to  be  your  servant,  Madame.  [He  takes 


116  GIBOYER'S  SON 

the  cup  from  the  hand  of  Mme.  Marechal,  who  is 
stupefied,  and  carries  it  to  the  table.] 

BARONESS.  [To  Mme.  Marechal.]  My  poor 
friend !  Who  could  have  foreseen  I 

MME.  MARECHAL.  And  her  father  isn't  here! 
[They  go  back  into  the  parlor,  followed  by  the 
guests.] 

COUNT.  Well,  cousin,  what  do  you  say  about 
this? 

MARQUIS.  I  say  that  Fernande  very  delicately 
atoned  for  an  impertinence  of  her  stepmother,  that's 
all. 

COUNT.  That's  all?  But  she  loves  this  young 
man,  she  loves  him ! 

MARQUIS.    You're  losing  your  head! 

COUNT.  Possibly;  but  I  declare  to  you  that  I 
renounce  this  marriage. 

MARQUIS.    You  renounce. 

COUNT.  Bourgeoise  and  compromised,  that's  too 
much! 

MARQUIS.  Very  much  compromised  indeed,  if  you 
break  off;  for  breaking  off  would  give  a  serious 
signification  to  an  incident  which  in  itself  is 
insignificant. 

COUNT.    I  am  very  sorry  but — 

MARQUIS.  You  must  consider  that  Fernande  is 
my  ward,  my  daughter  you  might  say ;  that  it  was  I 
who  arranged  this  marriage  and  that  I  am  to  a 
certain  extent  responsible  for  its  consequences. 

COUNT.  Not  as  much  as  I  am,  cousin,  so  you  will 
let  me  be  the  judge  on  that  question. 

MARQUIS.    So  you  refuse  to  marry  her? 

COUNT.    Yes. 

MARQUIS.    Very  well,  you'll  answer  me  for  that. 

COUNT.    I !    Fight — with  my  second  father — 


GIBOYER'S  SON  117 

MARQUIS.  I  disinherit  you,  to  put  you  at  your 
ease. 

COUNT.    But  your  white  hair,  sir — 

MARQUIS.  Don't  worry  about  that;  I  am  a  first- 
class  swordsman. 

COUNT.    And  yet  if  she  loves  this  young  man? 

MARQUIS.  And  if  she  did  love  him,  which  I  deny, 
she  is  a  brave  heart,  who  will  never  fail  to  plight 
her  troth.  Let  us  go  and  sit  by  her  side  to  protect 
her  by  our  presence  against  the  charitable  insinua- 
tions of  all  these  devout  women.  Be  a  French 
knight  for  once  in  your  life ! 

MARECHAL.     [Enters.] 

MARQUIS.  [To  the  Count.]  Go  without  me,  sir,  I 
shall  join  you.  [Exit  Count.] 

MARECHAL.  What  was  the  Count  saying  to  you? 
Did  the  heedlessness  of  my  daughter?  for  it  is  only 
heedlessness — 

MARQUIS.  We  are  convinced  of  that,  the  Count 
and  I. 

MARECHAL.  Ah,  I  breathe  again !  My  wife  scared 
me  so.  So  the  marriage  still  holds? 

MARQUIS.  More  than  ever;  for  it  has  become 
indispensable  to  Fernande.  You  understand  that 
breaking  off,  after  that  foolish  action,  would 
compromise  her  beyond  measure. 

MARECHAL.    That's  true. 

MARQUIS.  Consequently,  if  anything  should 
happen,  which  made  your  position  more  difficult 
toward  your  son-in-law,  that  would  be  no  reason  for 
returning  to  your  dislike  of  an  aristocratic  alliance. 

MARECHAL.     Certainly  not,  but  what  event? 

MARQUIS.  If,  for  one  reason  or  another,  you  were 
to  lose  for  a  time  the  moral  superiority  which  your 
political  position  gives  you — 

MARECHAL.    How  could  I  lose  it? 


118  GIBOYER'S  SON 

MABQUIS.  Monsieur  de  la  Haute-Sarthe*  has 
something  to  say  to  you. 

MABECHAL.    What?   You  frighten  me. 

MABQUIS.    He  will  tell  you. 

MABECHAL.  In  the  name  of  Heaven,  Marquis, 
explain  yourself.  I  have  courage. 

MABQUIS.  Well,  the  committee  has  decided — in 
spite  of  me,  my  dear  friend — but  I  was  alone  in  my 
opinion — 

MABECHAL.    What  did  it  decide  ? 

MABQUIS.  That  they  would  take  the  speech  away 
from  you. 

MABECHAL.  But  that's  infamous!  I  know  it  by 
heart ! 

MABQUIS.    Alas,  you  must  forget  it. 

MABECHAL.    Never;  how  did  I  deserve  this  slur! 

MABQUIS.  They  are  deeply  grieved  about  it,  and 
ask  your  forgiveness;  but  the  interest  of  the  cause 
comes  before  everything  else.  They  found  a 
willing  Protestant. 

MABECHAL.  A  Protestant?  That's  absurd!  My 
speech  will  no  longer  have  any  sense. 

MABQUIS.  [Seeing  Giboyer  enter.}  There,  my 
dear  fellow,  is  the  author  of  your  speech. 

MABECHAL. — M.  de  Boyergi? 

MABQUIS.  Ask  him  what  he  thinks  about  it.  I  am 
going  to  chaperone  your  daughter.  [Exit.] 

MABECHAL.  What  do  you  think  about  it,  M.  de 
Boyergi? 

GIBOYEB.    About  what? 

MABECHAL.  About  the  choice  they  have  made  of 
a  Protestant  to  speak  my — your — the  speech? 

GIBOYEB.  These  gentlemen  look  upon  it  as  a  shin- 
ing homage  to  truth ;  as  for  me,  I  think  that  it  will 

*  The  French  form  really  means :  the  executioner,  although  it  ia 
doubtful  whether  Marechal  would  sense  that. 


GIBOYEE' 8  SON  119 

furnish  a  fine  exordium  for  the  reply.  [In  an 
oratorical  tone.]  And  what,  gentlemen,  is  it  a 
Protestant  you  have  been  listening  to?  The  first 
thing  he  has  to  do  on  leaving  this  place  is  to  convert 
himself,  if  he  is  sincere. 

MAEECHAL.  That's  so.  I  wonder  what  kind  of  a 
Protestant  that  is,  if  he  doesn't  protest. 

GIBOYEE.  This,  gentlemen,  is  one  of  the  most 
serious  symptoms  of  religious  indifference  which  has 
been  given  in  our  times !  You  go  further  than  we  do 
in  the  philosophical  religion.  The  choice  of  your 
orator  is  an  admission;  the  middle  ages  are  dead 
and  it  is  you  who  set  the  last  stone  upon  its  grave. 
Why  do  you  talk  of  reviving  it  ? 

MAEECHAL.  Bravo!  Bravo!  I  would  give  a  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  out  of  my  own  pocket  to  throw 
that  in  the  face  of  the  intriguer  who  supplanted  me. 

GIBOYEB.  The  fact  is  that  these  gentlemen  have 
cruelly  baffled  you. 

MAEECHAL.    It's  an  indignity. 

GIBOYEE.  Say,  a  mystification.  They  treat  you 
like  a  clown. 

MAEECHAL.    I'll  show  them  whether  I  am  one. 

GIBOYEE.  They  make  you  so  ridiculous  that  you 
won't  dare  to  show  yourself. 

MAEECHAL.  They  won't  take  it  to  Heaven  with 
them. 

GIBOYEB.  Unfortunately,  you  can  do  nothing 
against  them. 

MAEECHAL.    Who  knows. 

GIBOYEE.  [In  a  low  tone.]  There  is  a  fine 
revenge  against  them. 

MAEECHAL.    What  is  it? 

GIBOYEE.    Answer  the  speech. 

MAEECHAL.    I? 

GIBOYEE.    Strike  them  with  thunder. 


120  GIBOYER'S  SON 

MABECHAL.    Ah,  if  I  could. 

GIBOYEB.  All  you  lack  is  the  thunder.  It  may  be 
found. 

MABECHAL.    Who?      You? 

GIBOYEB.  No,  that's  above  me.  I  only  know  one 
man  capable  of  refuting  my  speech;  it's  my  nephew. 

MABECHAL.    Gerard? 

GIBOYEB.    Yes. 

MABECHAL.    But  he  found  it  unanswerable  ? 

GIBOYEB.  He  thought  over  it  since  that,  and 
demolished  it  for  me  piece  by  piece.  Shall  I  confess 
it  to  you?  He  changed  my  opinion  so  totally  that  I 
abandon  the  party  and  to-morrow  I  shall  send  in  my 
resignation  as  chief-editor. 

MABECHAL.  Really.  Maximilien  converted  you  as 
completely  as  that  ?  Then  he  would  be  able  to  write 
me  a  speech — 

GIBOYEB.     [Kissing  his  fingers.]     Oh,  a  gem! 

MABECHAL.    And  he  could  do  it  in  a  night. 

GIBOYEB.    Easily. 

MABECHAL.  And  I  would  be  able  to  read  it 
to-morrow? 

GIBOYEB.  What  a  surprise  that  would  be  for  those 
gentlemen. 

MABECHAL.    Can  your  nephew  hold  his  tongue! 

GIBOYEB.    Like  myself. 

MABECHAL.  Let  him  say  nothing  about  it! 
Neither  to  my  wife  nor  to  my  daughter,  nor  to 
anyone!  And  let  him  bring  me  his  manuscript 
to-morrow  morning. 

GIBOYEB.    Agreed. 

MABECHAL.  What  a  revenge.  [He  goes  back  to 
tine  parlor.] 

GIBOYEB.  Here  is  a  recruit  of  which  democracy 
will  not  be  proud — but  before  everything  else,  I 
must  try  to  secure  Maximilien 's  happiness. 


GIBOYER'S  SON  121 

MAXIMILIEN.  [Coming  out  of  the  parlor.]  Are 
you  coming? 

GIBOYEE.    You  look  as  if  you  were  intoxicated. 

MAXIMILIEN.    I  am. 

GIBOYEK.  To  sober  you  up,  you  are  going  to  spend 
the  night  in  writing  the  refutation  of  Marechal's 
speech, — I'll  give  you  the  beginning. 

MAXIMILIEN.    Why  should  I? 

GIBOYEE.  I  have  a  deputy  who  lacks  only  the 
power  of  speech. 

MAXIMILIEN.  I  won't  be  the  one  to  give  it  to  him. 
What  do  I  care  about  politics  now? 

GIBOYEE.  Don't  you  hate  those  opinions  before 
which  merit  and  honor  are  an  insufficient  dowry? 

MAXIMILIEN.     Yes,  I  do. 

GIBOYEB.  These  opinions  which  part  you  from 
Fernande? 

MAXIMILIEN.    I  hate  them. 

GIBOYEE.  Don't  you  feel  rage  rising  in  your  heart 
before  this  stupid  obstacle  ? 

MAXIMILIEN.    Yes. 

GIBOYEB.  Don't  you  feel  like  jumping  on  it  and 
fastening  your  teeth  into  it? 

MAXIMILIEN.  You're  right.  Even  if  it  breaks  my 
teeth,  I  shall  clinch  them  on  it!  Let's  utter  the  pro- 
test of  despair,  the  handful  of  dust  of  the  van- 
quished! Let's  go! 

GIBOYEE.  Go  and  get  your  overcoat.  [Aside.]  I 
never  wear  any — it's  too  warm.  [Exeunt.] 

[CURTAIN.] 


ACTV. 

[Same  scene  as  second  act.    Madame  Marechal  is 

seated  in  the  middle  of  the  stage,  embroidering; 

Fernande  walks  back  and,  forth  silently.] 

MME.  MARECHAL.  You  are  very  nervous, 
Mademoiselle. 

FERNANDE.    And  you  very  calm,  Madame. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  I  have  no  reason  for  not  being 
calm. 

FERNANDE.  When  my  father  is  perhaps  making 
his  speech  at  this  very  moment. 

MME.  MARECHAL.    Oh,  that's  what's  worrying  you. 

FERNANDE.  What  else,  Madame?  I  admire  your 
tranquillity. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  Your  father's  speech  is  mag- 
nificent and  I  am  sure  that  it  will  be  a  triumph. 

FERNANDE.    I  do  not  ask  that  much. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  I  should  say  not;  he  unfurls  a 
flag  which  is  not  yours. 

FERNANDE.  I  have  no  flag,  Madame ;  I  do  not  dab- 
ble in  politics. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  You  astonish  me ;  I  thought  you 
were  a  Eepublican  at  heart. 

FERNANDE.    Why  so  ? 

MME.  MARECHAL.  Their  opinion  does  away  with 
social  distinctions. 

FERNANDE.    I  do  not  understand  you. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  You  still  play  the  part  of  an 
artless  child,  after  yesterday's  scandal? 

FERNANDE.  Scandal?  You  are  the  only  one, 
Madame,  who  puts  such  an  interpretation  upon  a 
simple  action.  I  am  sure  that  all  high-minded  people 
approved  of  what  I  did;  first  of  all,  Monsieur 

122 


GIBOYER'S  SON  123 

d'Outreville,  who  is  most  interested  in  this  question. 

MME.  MAEECHAL.  Do  not  think  you  delighted  him 
by  your  little  manifestation!  I  still  fail  to  under- 
stand why  he  did  not  break  off  the  engagement  at 
once. 

FEENANDE.  If  I  suspected  him  of  having  thought 
of  it  for  an  instant,  I  would  break  it  off. 

MME.  MAEECHAL.     You  are  severe. 

FERNANDE.  I  will  not  permit  him  to  question  my 
honesty. 

SEEVANT.     Does  Madame  receive? 

MME.  MAEECHAL.    Whom? 

SERVANT.    Baroness  Pfeffers. 

FEBNANDE.     [Aside.]    Again? 

MME.  MAEECHAL.  Show  her  in.  [Servant  intro- 
duces Baroness.] 

MME.  MAEECHAL.  [Showing  the  Baroness  to  a 
seat.]  Do  you  know,  my  dear  Baroness,  that  you 
are  spoiling  us  1 

BARONESS.  [Who  remains  standing.]  Alas, 
Madame,  I  come  to-day  against  my  wishes,  on  a  mis- 
sion which  will  certainly  surprise  you,  and  which 
should  have  been  M.  d'Auberive's  painful  task  rather 
than  mine. — M.  d'Outreville  judged  otherwise  and 
notwithstanding  the  dislike  I  feel  in  interfering  in 
such  delicate  matters,  I  had  to  yield  to  his  entreaties. 

MME.  MAEECHAL.  Does  he  take  back  his  word? 
[To  Fernande.]  What  was  I  telling  you?  That's 
the  result  of  your  eccentricities.  After  yesterday's 
scene,  this  rupture  is  a  disaster  for  you ! 

BAEONESS.  Do  not  let  us  exaggerate,  Madame; 
Mademoiselle  Fernande 's  situation  remains  blame- 
less. M.  d'Outreville,  like  a  true  gentleman,  did  not 
wish  for  a  rupture  as  long  as  it  might  be  interpreted 
in  a  way  detrimental  to  his  betrothed;  but  M. 
Marechal's  speech  did  away  with  all  his  hesitation. 


124  GIBOYER'S  SON 

FEBNANDE.    My  father  spoke? 

BAEONESS.  Yes,  Mademoiselle. — It  was  on  leaving 
the  chamber  that  M.  d'Outreville  rushed  to  my  house, 
indignant  at  this  unqualified  facing  about. 

FEENANDE.    What  do  you  mean? 

BAEONESS.  Well,  how  do  you  want  me  to  call  it  I 
I  admit  that  M.  Marechal  might  have  been  hurt,  that 
he  might  have  refused  to  understand  the  superior 
reasons  which  compelled  the  committee  to  choose 
another  orator. 

MME.  MAEECHAL.  Another  orator? — What  do  you 
mean? 

BAEONESS.  Don't  you  know  that  they  took  the 
speech  away  from  him  to  give  it  to  M.  d'Aigremont? 

MME.  MAEECHAL.    We'll  be  scoffed  at,  Madame ! 

FEENANDE.  And  yet  you  said  that  my  father 
spoke. 

BAEONESS.  Alas,  yes !  He  arose  after  M.  d  'Aigre- 
mont's  speech,  and  to  the  great  surprise  of  our 
friends,  and  to  their  greater  indignation,  read  a 
furious  reply  to  the  noble  words  that  had  just  been 
heard. 

MME.  MAEECHAL.  How  horrible!  We'll  be  the 
laughing  stock  of  the  town. 

BAEONESS.  I  am  afraid  so,  Madame.  M.  d'Outre- 
ville left  the  session,  he  hastened  to  my  house ;  you 
know  the  rest. 

FEENANDE.  Tell  him,  Madame,  that  he  did  not 
need  to  ask  for  his  release ;  my  father  released  him. 

BAEONESS.  This  answer  is  worthy  of  you,  Madem- 
oiselle. Goodbye,  Madame.  Be  sure  that  I  share  the 
sorrow  which  M.  Marechal 's  conduct  causes  you. 
[Aside.]  Within  a  month  I  shall  wear  azure  with 
three  gold  bezants.  [Enter  Marechal.} 

FEENANDE.     [Rushing  to  kiss  him.]    Father! 


GIBOYER'S  SON  125 

[Marechal  gracefully  salutes  the  Baroness,  who 
goes  out  without  looking  at  him.] 

MARECHAL.  [To  Fernande.]  Why  does  the 
Baroness  assume  this  haughty  air! 

MME.  MAEECHAL.    How  can  you  ask? 

MARECHAL.  Oh,  you  know? — Well  so  much  the 
better. 

MME.  MAEECHAL.  Apostate !  [Fernande  sits  down 
to  her  tapestry.] 

MAEECHAL.  Easy  there,  Madame  Marechal,'  if 
there  has  been  apostasy  on  my  part,  it  was  when  I 
abandoned  the  principles  of  my  father, — not  when  I 
return  to  them.  I  am  a  plebeian,  if  you  didn't  know 
it  before ! 

MME.  MAEECHAL.    Ah,  if  I  could  have  suspected ! 

MAEECHAL.  My  name  is  not  even  a  name,  it's  a 
nickname ;  among  my  ancestors,  there  was  a  marshal, 
not  a  marshal  of  France,  do  you  hear?  A  common 
blacksmith.  Blush  about  it  if  you  want  to;  I  am 
proud  of  it. 

MME.  MAEECHAL.  Just  Heavens !  To  what  did  I 
expose  myself,  when  I  committed  a  mesalliance ! 

MAEECHAL.  Leave  me  alone  with  your  mesalli- 
ance. You're  no  more  noble  than  I  am. 

MME.  MARECHAL.     Sir! 

MARECHAL.  Your  name  was  Eobillard,  and  your 
great-grandfather  was — 

MME.  MARECHAL.    Do,  at  least,  respect  my  family. 

MARECHAL.  It  is  not  respectable. — I  esteem  you 
none  the  less  for  that ;  I  have  no  prejudices.  I  scorn 
nobility;  the  only  distinction  that  I  admit  between 
men,  is  wealth. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  If  you  scorn  nobility,  it  pays 
you  back.  Count  d'Outreville  has  already  sent  word 
to  us,  through  the  Baroness,  that  he  would  not  marry 
the  daughter  of  a  demagogue. 


126  GIBOYER'S  SON 

MARECHAL.  Really!  He  will  no  longer  honor  Hie 
by  pocketing  my  coin  ?  M.  Shortcash  dismisses  me ! 
He  dismisses  the  thought  of  an  alliance  with  me? 
What  a  coincidence !  I  was  going  to  dismiss  him. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  Why,  your  language  becomes 
lower  with  your  sentiments;  you  are  becoming 
common. 

MARECHAL.  I  speak  as  I  please,  as  behooves  a 
free  man. 

MME.  MARECHAL.  You  are  a  Eevolutionist,  a  can- 
nibal, that 's  what  you  are. 

MARECHAL.  You  make  me  smile.  That  is  all  the 
effect  that  outbursts  of  weakness  produce  upon  real 
strength. 

MME.  MARECHAL.    I  leave  the  place  to  you,  sir. 

MARECHAL.  Go  back  to  your  own  apartments ;  and 
henceforth,  stay  there. 

[Madame  Marechal  leaves  indignantly.] 

MARECHAL.  [Taking  a  seat  near  Fernande.]  You 
do  not  say  anything,  little  girl?  Do  you  regret 
d'Outreville?  Did  you  love  him? 

FERNANDE.  No,  father;  it  was  a  marriage  of 
convenience. 

MARECHAL.  He  wasn't  good-looking.  I  don't  know 
how  I  could  ever  have  thought  of  giving  a  handsome 
girl  like  you  to  this  noble  broomstick.  Don't  worry, 
you  will  not  lack  suitors,  with  your  fortune  and  your 
father's  glory. 

FERNANDE.     So  you  had  a  great  success  ? 

MARECHAL.  [Modestly.]  Enormous,  my  child! 
Bigger  than  anything  that  took  place  within  the  last 
ten  years.  Ah,  the  gentlemen  of  the  committee  must 
be  biting  their  fingernails  for  having  taken  their 
speech  away  from  me !  I  smashed  it  to  smithereens ! 
You  will  read  the  paper  to-morrow  morning. — I  hope 
you  are  not  a  legitimist! 


GIBOYER' S  SON  127 

FERNANDE.  I  am  nothing;  but  I  was  astonished 
that  you  should  be  one;  for  you  had  no  reasons  for 
being  one. 

MARECHAL.  [Rising.]  I  wasn't  at  heart — I  had 
foolishly  allowed  myself  to  be  talked  over  by  your 
stepmother  and  the  confounded  Marquis :  I  believed 
in  the  possibility  of  an  alliance  between  the  old  and 
the  new  aristocracy ;  but  the  scales  fell  from  my  eyes. 

FERNANDE.  [Grasping  his  arm  tenderly.]  How- 
ever this  might  be,  I  am  glad  of  your  success  and 
very  glad  above  all  that  it  is  all  over. 

MARECHAL.  Over?  That's  only  the  beginning! 
All  the  orators  of  the  opposite  party  gave  notice  that 
they  would  attack  me  to-morrow;  but  they  do  not 
know  whom  they  have  to  deal  with !  The  day  after 
to-morrow  will  be  my  turn ;  my  friends  are  depend- 
ing on  me :  I  shall  not  fail  them. 

SERVANT.     [Announcing.]    M.  de  Boyergi. 

MARECHAL.  Show  him  in. — Leave  us,  Fernande, 
we  have  to  talk.  [He  kisses  her  on  the  forehead,  and 
she  leaves  the  room.]  Well,  my  dear  Boyergi,  you 
are  coming  to  receive  my  thanks  ? 

GIBOYER.    I  bring  you  my  congratulations. 

MARECHAL.  And  I  accept  them !  But  a  good  share 
of  them  belong  to  your  nephew,  do  you  hear?  He 
expressed  my  ideas  wonderfully,  much  better  than  I 
could  have  done  myself.  I  admit  that. 

GIBOYER.    You  are  too  modest. 

MARECHAL.  No,  my  dear  fellow,  I  am  only  just. 
This  young  man  will  rise,  I  tell  you,  and  you  may 
believe  me;  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about.  I  wish 
to  attach  him  to  me  and  I'll  take  care  of  his  fortune. 

GIBOYER.  I  thank  you  very  much  but  I  have  other 
plans  for  him ;  I  shall  take  him  to  America. 

MARECHAL.    You'll  take  him  away? 

GIBOYER.    Yes ;  I  have  accepted  the  direction  of  a 


128  GIBOYER'S  SON 

great  newspaper  in  Philadelphia  and  I  need  Maxi- 
milien's  help. 

MARECHAL.  But  hang  it,  I  need  him  too !  I  need 
him  more  than  you.  I  have  a  great  position  to  sus- 
tain, a  great  cause  to  defend. 

GIBOYEB.    You  are  big  enough  to  do  it  alone. 

MAEECHAL.  I  don't  know!  This  young  man  is 
very  useful  to  me,  I  do  not  deny  that. 

GIBOYER.    Useful,  yes ;  but  not  indispensable. 

MAKECHAL.  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  am  accustomed 
to  his  ways  of  working  and  he  is  accustomed  to  mine. 
He  completes  me,  he  is  my  right  hand,  it  is  he  who 
holds  my  pen.  And  besides,  I  am  satisfied  with  his 
style.  I  don 't  want  to  change, — and  then  I  love  that 
fellow!  I  wish  to  train  him  myself,  in  my  school. 
Where  will  he  find  a  better  chance  for  training  than 
he  will  find  if  he  stays  with  me? 

GIBOYER.     That  isn't  the  question. 

MARECHAL.  What  is  the  question!  Is  it  a  ques- 
tion of  salary?  Settle  that  yourself.  What  would 
he  earn  in  America?  I'll  give  him  twice  the  amount. 

GIBOYER.    Well — 

MARECHAL.  He  wants  his  independence  ?  He  shall 
have  it !  No  one  will  know  that  he  belongs  to  me — 
I  like  that  just  as  well !  Come,  if  you  have  his  inter- 
est at  heart,  you  must  accept  my  offers.  They  are 
handsome ! 

GIBOYER.  So  handsome  that  I  can  only  excuse  my 
refusal  by  telling  you  the  whole  truth.  I  take  Maxi- 
milien  with  me  more  especially  to  give  him  a  change, 
to  tear  him  away  from  a  hopeless  love. 

MARECHAL.  He  is  in  love  f  Well,  what  of  it !  We 
have  all  been — and  here  we  are ! 

GIBOYER.  It  4s  not  a  slight  affair,  sir;  it  is  a 
passion. 


GIBOYER'S  SON  129 

MARECHAL.  What?  A  young  girl  he  cannot 
marry? 

GIBOYEK.    Exactly. 

MAEECHAL.  The  devil  take  the  young  people! 
[Aside.]  And  my  reply — the  day  after  to-morrow. 
[Aloud.]  When  do  you  leave? 

GIBOYEB.     To-morrow  evening. 

MAKECHAL.    Give  me,  at  least,  a  week. 

GIBOYEK.    Not  one  day;  I  am  expected. 

MAEECHAL.  Hang  it !  Is  there  no  way  to  arrange 
this  marriage? 

GIBOYEB.  It  is  so  impossible  that  we  do  not  even 
wish  to. 

MABECHAL.  Has  the  family  such  extraordinary 
pretensions  ?  For  after  all,  your  nephew  is  a  charm- 
ing fellow ;  he  has  a  splendid  future  before  him,  and 
a  very  acceptable  present,  since  I  give  him — yes,  I'll 
pay  him  twenty  thousand  francs.  Confound  it,  that's 
a  splendid  position.  What  do  those  fools  want? 

GIBOYEB.  If  I  told  you  the  young  lady's  name, 
you  would  not  insist. 

MAKECHAL.    Is  she  then  a  Montmorency? 

GIBOYEB.  Better  than  that,  sir!  To  cut  it  short, 
it  is  Mademoiselle  Fernande. 

MAKECHAL.  My  daughter? — My  secretary  allows 
himself  to  cast  his  eyes  upon  my  daughter? 

GIBOYER.    No,  sir,  since  he  is  leaving  for  America. 

MARECHAL.  A  pleasant  trip  to  him!  She  is  not 
for  him,  my  dear  sir. 

GIBOYER.  [Bowing  as  if  to  take  leave.]  I  know 
it.  May  she  be  happy  with  Count  d  'Outreville ! 

MARECHAL.  D 'Outreville?  Yes,  indeed!  [Bring- 
ing Giboyer  back.]  Another  thing  for  which  I  am 
indebted  to  you!  It's  all  off,  thanks  to  the  attitude 
you  made  me  take. 

GIBOYER.     [Aside.]    I  suspected  that  much. 


130  GIBOYER'S  SON 

MABECHAL.  [Walking  'back  and  forth.}  My  poor 
child!  Her  marriage  was  announced  everywhere! 
The  bridal  gifts  were  bought,  the  banns  published! 
How  shall  I  marry  her  now?  And  all  that  through 
your  fault! 

GIBOYEE.  [Very  coldly.}  You  didn't  care  about 
that  when  I  came. 

MABECHAL.  Alas,  I  was  depending  upon  my  glory 
to  offset  the  bad  effect  of  it.  My  glory!  Another 
disappointment!  You  deliver  me  helpless  to  the 
enemies  I  have  made !  I  am  the  butt  of  a  powerful 
and  a  revengeful  clique!  Jests  will  pour  upon  my 
silence.  All  that's  left  for  me  to  do  is  to  abandon 
politics  and  go  and  plant  my  cabbages.  The  disaster 
is  complete !  The  father  is  even  more  compromised 
than  the  daughter.  [Sits  down  to  the  right.] 

GIBOYEE.  A  rich  heiress  is  never  so  compromised 
that  she  cannot  find  a  husband. 

MAEECHAL.  [Cast  down.]  Yes,  some  penniless 
fop  who  will  take  her  for  her  money  and  make  her 
unhappy. 

GIBOYEE.  That's  so,  you  are  right.  I  wasn't 
thinking  of  that.  A  disinterested  young  man  who 
would  marry  her  for  love — that 's  hard  to  find.  And 
even  supposing  that  you  should  find  one,  your 
daughter  would  be  out  of  her  troubles,  but  not  you. 

MARECHAL.     Of  course,  not. 

GIBOYEE.  Unless  your  son-in-law  were  capable  of 
taking  the  place  of  my  nephew;  and  you  can't  pick 
one  like  that  in  the  street  every  day. 

MABECHAL.     I  know  that. 

GIBOYEE.  And  then,  it  is  enough  that  one  man 
should  know  the  secrets  of  your  labor. 

MAEECHAL.     That's  already  too  much. 

GIBOYEE.    How  can  we  get  out  of  that  ? 

MAEECHAL.     [Striking  his  forehead.]    What  fools 


GIBOYER'S  SON  131 

we  are!  That's  perfectly  easy.  [Goes  to  the  chimney 
and  rings. ] 

GIBOYEB.     [Aside.]     Yes,  with  a  little  help. 

MABECHAL.  [Aside,  coming  down  stage.]  It  will 
do  me  the  greatest  honor.  Besides,  I  cannot  do  other- 
wise. [To  the  servant  who  appears.]  Ask  Madem- 
oiselle to  come  and  speak  to  me. 

GIBOYEB.    You  have  an  idea  ? 

MAEECHAL.  I  never  lack  ideas,  my  dear  fellow, 
what  I  lack  is  style.  I  am  going  to  astonish  you. 

GIBOYEB.    What  do  you  intend  doing! 

MAEECHAL.  Don't  guess ;  you'd  never  hit  it.  Men 
who  act  as  they  think  are  rare ;  I  am  such  a  man — I 
am  square ;  what  I  think,  I  say ;  and  what  I  say,  I  do. 

GIBOYEB.  [Aside.]  It's  astonishing  how  smart  I 
am,  when  it  is  not  for  myself.  [Enter  Fernande.] 

MAEECHAL.  My  daughter,  let  me  introduce  to  you 
M.  de  Boyergi,  Maximilien's  uncle, — do  you  know 
what  he  has  just  told  me ?  That  his  nephew  is  leaving 
for  America. 

FEBNANDE.    Leaving?    He  hadn't  told  me. 

GIBOYEB.  He  made  up  his  mind  this  morning, 
Mademoiselle. 

FEBNANDE.    Will  he  not  come  to  say  good-bye? 

GIBOYEB.  He  has  very  little  time  and  asked  me  to 
present  his  respects. 

FEBNANDE.  He  doesn't  think  we  are  very  friendly 
toward  him  then?  Tell  him,  sir,  that  I  would^have 
been  glad  to  shake  hands  with  him,  and  that  I  wish 
him  all  the  happiness  which  he  deserves. 

MAEECHAL.  No  happiness  for  him !  Do  you  know 
the  reason  for  this  desperate  resolution?  This  gen- 
tleman did  not  wish  to  tell  me,  but  no  one  can  conceal 
anything  from  me.  The  poor  young  man  goes  away 
in  order  to  forget  you. 

FEBNANDE.    Forget    me?      [To    Giboyer.]    Best 


132  GIBOYER'S  SON 

assured,  sir,  that  I  was  not  guilty  of  any  coquetry. 
Chance  alone  brought  about  this  sort  of  intimacy 
which  I  deeply  regret  since  it  caused  M.  Gerard  to 
feel  more  than  friendly  toward  me. 

MABECHAL.  That's  all  well  and  good,  but  the  harm 
is  done.  And  it  grieves  me.  I  think  the  world  of 
that  young  man.  He  is  a  fellow  of  the  greatest  merit 
and  he  has  an  elevation  of  sentiment  which  is  very 
rare. 

FEBNANDE.  You  do  not  think  more  of  him  than 
I  do. 

MABECHAL.  He  is  poor,  so  much  the  better!  In 
short,  it  rests  with  you  whether  he  become  my  son- 
in-law.  [To  Giboyer.]  You  weren't  expecting  that, 
eh?  [To  Fernande.]  Well,  do  you  accept? 

FEBNANDE.    Yes,  father. 

GIBOYEB.  Ah,  thank  you,  Mademoiselle,  I  shall 
hasten  to — 

SERVANT.     [Announcing.]    M.  Gerard. 

GIBOYER.  Oh,  these  lovers !  He  wanted  to  go  with- 
out seeing  you  again. 

MABECHAL.  [In  a  low  voice.]  Hush !  Let  me  man- 
age. [He  sits  down  in  the  armchair,  Fernande  stands 
behind  him.]  Let  him  enter.  [Enter  Maximilien.] 

GIBOYEB.  [To  Maximilien,  ivho  stops  somewhat 
confused  on  seeing  him.]  Yes,  it's  I. 

MAXIMILIEN.  [To  Marechal.]  I  see,  sir,  that  I 
need  no  longer  announce  my  departure  to  you.  I 
come  to  take  leave  of  you — and  of  your  family. 

MAEECHAL.  My  family  approves  your  resolu- 
tion the  more  that  it  knows  the  real  reason  for  it. 

MAXIMILIEN.  [To  Giboyer.]  What  does  this 
mean? 

GIBOYEB.     [Joyously.]    I  confessed  everything. 

MAXIMILIEN.  By  what  right  did  you  reveal  my 
secret? 


GIBOYER'S  SON  133 

MABECHAL.  It  isn't  his  fault;  I  wormed  it  out  of 
him,  if  I  may  say  so.  So  you  dare  to  love  my 
daughter?  Nothing  bashful  about  you. 

MAXIMILIEN.     Sir — 

MABECHAL.     [Arising.]     Well — I  give  her  to  you. 

MAXIMILIEN.     Sir,  this  jest — 

GIBOYEB.    He  is  not  jesting. 

MAXIMILIEN.   What,  notwithstanding  my  poverty! 

MABECHAL.    Your  merit  is  a  fortune. 

MAXIMILIEN.    Notwithstanding  my  birth? 

GIBOYEB.     [Crushed,  aside.]    I  had  forgotten  that. 

MABECHAL.    What's  particular  about  your  birth? 

MAXIMILIEN.  Didn't  you  know?  I  bear  only  my 
mother's  name. 

MABECHAL.  What?  How's  that?  Father 
unknown!  [To  Giboyer.]  And  you  didn't  tell  me 
anything  about  it  ? 

GIBOYEB.    Alas,  I  had  forgotten  it. 

MABECHAL.  Forgotten  it,  hang  it!  You  should 
have  thought  of  it.  That  is  not  an  immaterial 
detail.  If  I  dare  prejudices,  I  respect  them!  And 
in  the  world's  eyes — 

GIBOYEB.  In  the  world's  eyes,  my  nephew  is  an 
orphan  and  nobody  will  look  up  his  birth  certificate. 

MABECHAL.  Why,  that's  so.  Nobody  will — and 
besides,  it's  an  enormous  advantage  to  marry  an 
orphan.  The  girl  marries  only  her  husband,  not  the 
whole  family. 

MAXIMILIEN.  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  my  father 
lives. 

GIBOYEB.  Never  mind  that !  He  has  no  claim  on 
you  since  he  did  not  recognize  you. 

MAXIMILIEN.  If  he  has  no  claim  on  me  before  the 
law,  he  has  in  my  heart.  You  hear. 

MABECHAL.  [To  Giboyer.]  Who  is  his  father? 
What's  his  name? 


134  GIBOYER'S  SON 

MAXIMILIEN.    Giboyer. 

MARECHAL.  Giboyer?  The  author  of  the 
biographies,  the  pamphlet  writer! 

GIBOYER.     [Bowing  his  head.]     Yes. 

MARECHAL.  [To  Maximilien.]  But  my  dear 
fellow,  you  owe  nothing  to  such  a  father,  neither 
before  God  nor  before  man.  You  ought  to  be  too 
glad  that  he  did  not  saddle  you  with  his  name. 

MAXIMILIEN.  [Warmly.]  That  is  why  he  did  not 
recognize  me,  not  to  avoid  his  duties  as  a  father. 
He  fulfilled  them  all  with  superhuman  abnegation. 
He  sacrificed  his  soul  and  body  for  me.  Let  the 
world  judge  him  as  it  pleases,  I  shall  not  disown 
him. 

GIBOYER.  [In  a  tremulous  voice.]  If  he  heard 
you,  he  would  feel  well  rewarded!  But  let  him 
achieve  his  task !  Since  he  devoted  his  life  to  making 
yours  easier,  do  not  cause  him  this  sorrow,  the  only 
one  he  had  not  foreseen,  of  becoming  himself  an 
obstacle  to  your  happiness ;  no  do  not  refuse  him  the 
bitter  joy  of  this  last  sacrifice.  [To  Marechal,  with 
a  firm  voice.]  I  promise  you  in  his  name  that  he 
will  disappear,  he  will  go  far  away. 

MAXIMILIEN.  "Where  he  goes,  I  shall  go :  it  is  my 
duty  and  my  pleasure.  I  shall  not  separate  him  from 
the  only  man  who  can  surround  his  old  age  with 
respect,  and  kneel  by  the  side  of  his  deathbed. 

MARECHAL,.  These  sentiments  do  you  honor;  but 
they  are  absurd,  isn't  that  so,  M.  de  Boyergi? 

GIBOYER.    Yes. 

MARECHAL.  You  are  in  tears  ?  Do  you  think  that 
I  am  not  moved?  I  am!  I  appreciate  the  good  M. 
Giboyer,  and  would  willingly  shake  hands  with  him, 
— out  of  sight,  but  hang  it,  I  can't  make  a  companion 
of  him.  Don't  ask  me  to  do  what's  impossible. 

MAXIMILIEN.    I  am  not  asking  for  anything,  sir. 


GIBOYER'S  SON  135 

MABECHAL.  [Aside.]  That's  often  the  way  to 
obtain  everything,  I  have  been  there.  [Aloud.]  I 
declare  to  you  that  I  shall  make  no  further  conces- 
sions. Choose  between  your  father,  since  you  have  a 
father,  and — my  daughter. 

MAXIMILIEN.    I  haven't  even  the  right  to  hesitate. 

GIBOYEB.  I  beseech  you,  do  not  worry  about  him. 
You  do  not  know  these  wild,  self-sufficient  devotions. 
The  sweetest  companion  you  may  give  to  his  old  age 
is  the  thought  that  you  are  happy. 

MAXIMILIEN.  The  more  he  would  forgive  my 
ungratefulness,  the  less  I  would  forget  it  myself! — 
No. 

GIBOYER.    That's  all,  then. 

MABECHAL.  [Angrily.]  That's  all.  Go  to  America, 
and  much  good  may  it  do  you !  You  do  not  love  my 
daughter,  that's  all. 

MAXIMILIEN.  [Letting  himself  fall  into  the  arm- 
chair with  a  sob.]  I  do  not  love  her ! 

MAEECHAL.  [From  the  threshold.]  Come  Fer- 
nande.  [Fernande,  who  has  followed  the  scene  from 
the  back  of  the  stage,  advances  toward  Maximilien, 
and,  taking  his  head  in  her  hands,  kisses  him  on  the 
forehead.  Then  she  straightens  up  and  looks  at  her 
father.]  Are  you  mad  1  A  fine  fix  I  am  in  now !  You 
win,  sir,  you  are  master  of  the  situation;  all  that's 
left  for  you  to  do  is  to  bring  M.  Giboyer  to  my  house 
and  give  him  one  of  my  dressing  gowns. 

FEBNANDE.  [To  Giboyer.]  I  would  be  glad,  sir, 
to  have  you  call  me  daughter. 

MARECHAL.    What,  it  is  he? 

FEBNANDE.  Hadn't  you  guessed  it?  [She  offers 
both  hands  to  Giboyer,  who  covers  them  with  kisses.] 

MABECHAL.  But  then,  there  is  nothing  changed  in  a 
situation  that  I  was  accepting  before.  All  I  ask  you 
to  do,  M.  de  Boyergi,  is  not  to  change  it. 


136  GIBOYER'S  SON 

GIBOYEB.    I  have  no  desire  to. 

MARECHAL.  [Aside.]  I  shall  have  two  secretaries 
instead  of  one. 

GIBOYER.  [Aside.]  Just  the  same,  I  shall  start 
for  America  after  the  marriage. 

SERVANT.     [Announcing.]     Marquis  d'Auberive. 

MARECHAL.  Come,  Marquis,  and  be  the  first  to 
learn  of  the  marriage  of  your  ward. 

MARQUIS.  [Looking  at  Gerard  and  Fernande.] 
With  M.  Gerard?  I  object. 

MARECHAL.  Oh,  oh,  you  object!  And  by  what 
right!  I  am  my  daughter's  father.  Am  I  not! 

MARQUIS.  That's  true,  but  do  you  know  who  this 
gentleman  is  ! 

FERNANDE.    I  love  him. 

MARQUIS.  [Aside.]  That  settles  it.  [Aloud.] 
Zounds!  I  had  grown  accustomed  to  the  idea  that 
you  would  marry  a  relative  of  mine,  my  dear  Fer- 
nande, and  at  my  age  a  man  does  not  change  his 
habits.  Young  man,  you  are  an  orphan — I  have  no 
children.  I  shall  adopt  you. 

MARECHAL.    What 's  that  ? 

GIBOYER.  I  thank  you  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart,  Marquis. 

MAXIMILJEN.  I  also  thank  you;  but  I  am  not 
accustomed  to  having  many  fathers ;  I  have  found  a 
good  one,  and  I  shall  keep  him. 

MARQUIS.  Take  care,  this  is  magnanimity  at  the 
expense  of  Fernande. 

FERNANDE.  That  kind  of  nobility  is  good  enough 
for  me. 

MARQUIS.  [To  Marechal.]  It  seems  to  me  that 
they  might  ask  you  what  you  think  about  it. 

MARECHAL.  That  would  be  proper,  and  I  admit 
that  I  would  be  delighted  if  my  son-in-law — why,  no, 
no,  no,  I  am  a  democrat. 


GIBOYER'S  SON  137 

GIBOYEK.     [Aside.]     And  he  believes  it. 
MAEQUIS.    Since  you  have  all  lost  your  minds, 
[Aside]  I  shall  adopt  my  grandson. 

[CUBTAIN.] 


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*EC'D  UK/ft 

APR  151991 

WAR  ze  • 


>f  Pro- 
Dve  the 
instant 
3,  then 
L  in  the 
iid  not 
life  of 
by  the 

m  arch 
*an  by 
1  there 
nrises, 
eckage 
of  the 

theatre  thereby  did  not  suffer  defeat,  though  one 
nobly  pioneering  experiment  in  that  art,  and  the 
genius  of  its  dauntless  creator,  ceased  with  the  life- 
work  of  Steele  MacKaye. 

The  constructive  experimenters  in  the  art  of  avia- 
tion have  already  their  historians ;  a  collaboration  of 

138 


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